


Requiem for the living

by Lavieland



Category: My Chemical Romance, Panic! at the Disco
Genre: F/M, Murder, Mystery, Witchcraft
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-24
Updated: 2019-08-10
Packaged: 2020-05-18 20:40:38
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 11
Words: 30,399
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19342222
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lavieland/pseuds/Lavieland
Summary: Funerals are supposed to be events when the past is buried, but for Brendon Urie it happened to be a profitabile moment to dig up the truth about his lover, whose betrayal and love both happen to be dragged out from her legacy that started centuries ago with a secret conflict between two figures that history has never showed them in this manner.It all starts when the not so sober but definetely humourous Leonardo DaVinci had the "pleasure" to meet what happened to be at first a man of trust he chose as an ally, but seemingly the feeling of love he carried for a provincial woman called Lisa made betrayal a tool of their downfall.Hundreds of year later, two factions of a cult born from that old as times conflict made another friendship fall in the worse way that could exist. The tale becomes more complicated as a duty of the priest who changes sides between godly and pagan shapes the course of the story, and father Gerard Way must quickly take a step in chosing his intentions, and not only by using the old fashioned ways.And as a cryptex that must be opened and that will uncover an forgotten artifact, this story is about revealing the truth behind the lies people tell.





	1. Happy Death's Day

**Author's Note:**

> This work was originally posted on Wattpad, account ID is Lavieland

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am not an english native speaker, but I am a grammar nazi myself, so excuse the possible grammar mistakes.
> 
> This is documented, so it will contain magick practices from translated books of John Dee, King Solomon's Lemegeton, Picatrix, norse magick from Galdrabok, things I obviously couldn't have written, only if I were an immortal witch or something, that is far from being true. Sorry to dissapoint that my broom only have cleaning purposes and nothing aerodynamical. 
> 
> It also will contain a parody - so no real historical events, no defamation of character intended - with real life persons like Leonardo DaVinci, Luca Pacioli, Pope Alexander the VI, Ludovico Sfortza, and if you don't know who most of them are don't worry, I didn't know either before writing this and searching frantically on-line. And I have two real characters, Gerard Way and Brendon Urie, who of course I don't own, because if I would...lucky me.

 

_**The beginning** _

_The most dangerous monsters are those that weren't born that way - they were good and carring till the day someone proved them they were wrong all the way. There is beauty in the change of one's soul._

 

 

_The screaming stopped._

  
It didn't came as a blast as he was expecting, but a tingly sensation that could've curl his spine till it'd have it broken. The fact that the curiosity killed the cat wasn't that helpful, and not being a fan of any kind of so-called cliché pieces of literature aimed him with the urge of getting the work done. The ticking sound of the cuckoo clock repeatedy its sound in frustration, reminding him that he was suposed to leave soon, but the sweet scent of revenge revealed that so long hidden thunder and storm  
raging inside.

The silence was deafening, as drops of that godly poison fed his vanity, easily, like the perfume of some random girl he'd forgot bare skinned in the room an eternity ago, erased soon from his filled with pride memory. The metalic taste is what he'd paid for so long, numb legs dragging him close enough to catch a glimpse of that corpse.

The winning of the crown could've put so easily that requiem on repeat, everything fading slowly like a valse around him, and little did he knew Dante himself would've been proud.

"Lose all hope ye who enter here, ay?" He wouldn't even stutter at that thought of getting out, not so much alive though.

What made the protagonist be like that was the question that popped in his head like a spreading disease, a story filled with a descend into madness being not enough to explain the truth behind his deepest desire. But how could he be the hero of this story as sin is a disease every villain and saint experienced?

It was all a connection of the past he'd have thought, somewhere in a sugary autumn of a funeral, where he found the soul-ripping truth that the small coffins are, indeed, the heaviest.

That smudged eyeliner of grief on the face of an woman could've put the frown on the face of Mona Lisa, with that ridiculous smile that would make any sinner or saint inside rumble. The mother of the victim kneeled on the cotton staining dirt, so many tears that could've got out from the core of the fresh soil that petrichor¹ that would have lifted into the air like a ghostly figure. The cross, such a poor indescriptible object for the salvation of the child's soul was shadowing the grave in which Lisa Jackson was going to be let down, one last time.

'Kids, with their play and fun. Now you have them, tomorrow they are gone', came into Brendon's mind, such filled with sobre respect, only shown on his serious face as he was looking at the suffering mother.

It was too cold outside, that kind that make the palest face shine with that glow that rise on the cheeks as the person seems to had ran into their crush, the one that raise the childish appetite for cinnamon and pumpkin spice diabetes triggering, risky drinks, and not suitable for that kind of sorrow that seem so close of depicting a murderous scene from some Edgar Allan Poe's poem.

The father was absent and he wouldn't ever come back, to Brendon's delight to have a moment of intimacy with the not anymore mother, whose defying beauty has been worn like a charm that could make men get insane due to their rather obscene thoughts.

Everything seemed to go beautifully pristine, the deep husky voice of a priest reminding the forgiveness of sins, the lies so delightful that can turn any saint into an raging sinner, and how hopeless would he hang like a condamned men from the gallows, naïve from his very own words of salvation coming from the hands of some god who had forgotten us all. There ain't no rest for the wicked, but there was no such case for the child who didn't know what to expect on the other side of life, beneath that dusty, mild earth that'll cover her body forever.

Brendon came closer to the mother, admiring with the corner of his eyes the dark silk embroided all along the woman's body, kept in that seemingly neverending cycle of crying and torment. The cuffs of her dress that were going round around her skeletic hands that took away her tears, the ring that seemed to be always in that place, shining like it could've taken someone eyes with all that sparkle of fortune born out of mischief, the rich voile carried long like she'd rather been a weeping victorian bride, a ghostly and so tempting figure awaken from dark, forgotten times.

The funeral looked rather like a national meeting, spoiled well-known faces surrounding her as she was an too early fallen snowflake, too delicate and how rich, but how full of suffer. Being such a close friend with the mair, he'd also spread the infamous joke at some pantagruelic dinner - in vino veritas², after all, everything being a reminiscense of his gluttony for drinking that could make even a demon envious - that if it weren't for him to reach in that damned function she'd been guaranteed to run the town herself with all that misogynistically said manly, cutthroat character and a tint of hidden feministic trait that only her childish face couldn't deny.

Now he was shown to be supporting, staying behind her as Brendon watched with some kind of tingling frustration the closure between her and the man, the way his hand felt so not accidentally on her shoulders, carelessy grabbing her extremely skinny waist that even let the discrete shape of her blade bones to be seen beneath the black cloath. How he'd been pulling her closer, full of desire eyes trying to get one little grin from her, desperate and greedy due to the profitable moment...

Cutting himself from the stomach-curling, disgusting moment was enough for Brendon to endure the cold in that loneliness of October, wrapped in that cozy coat who'd have been seen more old fashioned if it weren't for the fresh, charismaric look of the owner. The core of the cemetery wasn't far, but still, he could hear the voices louder, like they would never end their quarrel, eyes never bothering to raise and question his little tantrum that he carried when he left, disspearing as the loved ones and strangers have the bad habit to do.

The rage made him hit the stone of the creature with cold eyes, the old style brought by humans who dug up the reminiscents of the vest european gothic, the gargoyle³ seeming to frown at him and how miserable he felt about the closure between that rich woman and even richer man, brought together not by faith, but some kind of dystopic way of tormenting his own plans with her. The pain made him feel worse, but the waiting was important, because he knew, it was now, or...

"I've been waiting for you", his voice sounded calm, despite the pain that was pounding inside his guts.

"Excuse me?"

Those words were nondistinctive, something barely heard into a whisper of someone who's trying so hard not to cry. Her gaze met his, something at the edge of desperation and lack of interest bringing her at that verge of staring compasionately and unwilling to go any further. That was something money couldn't buy, something the mair could've never given away as long as he never knew something as intense as pure lust, so concentrate that could've get rid of one's sanity.

"I am sorry for your loss, Mary", Brendon continued without stutter, his voice deepened by worry. "Remaining alone seems more like a curse..."

"Is something I have to accept", she interrupted, her bitter lips drawing with such a close precision that fake smile that he knew so well.

"You don't have to carry this alone."

"I don't", she protested in ignorance, painful reminder that since the first sunrise of human nature, they knew to lie best about how they feel. "There is nothing you should worry about, except for the fact that you seem to be a freak stalking my child's funeral."

"Is it the mair that is helping you to cope with it?" he raised his voice as he watched her with discretion go, her dress touching so ravening the wet and dead leaves on the ground. She stopped, her rage feeling in her hardened breath, but she continued to go till it left nothing more to see. It was so ravishing, both beautiful the sight of her leaving.

The receiving of a letter three days later was receive more with confusion than awe. Brendon's head was filled with so many questions that it seemed that even his forehead had a quotation mark upon it.

Nevertheless, Mary Jackson did the unexpected turn when she asked so clearly for him to come to what seemed to be an over the head fancy dinner in memory of her deceased daughter Lisa, which he could've easily figure out it was going to involve even more sophisticated manners and things that should've remained burried somewhere in the past for sure.

But could he deny, after all? All that he could've dream of is taking the odds of victory as he'd rip the satisfied grin of that rolled in money mair who takes advantage of a woman's grief that, in he's opinion, is definitely spoken for. So it didn't take long till the dawn of the day when the young, fresh faced Brendon was going to make a hell of an appearance in front of the spoiled men and ladies whose lack of integrity would make them find his courage a reason to gossip.

"Interesting thing, my darling", the mair clinged at the crystal clear glass with even more clear champagne, eyes sweetened by the charming look of the woman who seemed to move on so easily after the death of her own child, "I've been much of a loner myself. But could I complain now, in your presence?" he laughed, not even with a tint of shyness, his grin seeming to make her cheeks red after that so-called compliment.

"Excuse me", Brendon raised his voice unconsciously at the sight of the mair as he chimed in the parlor with that young voice of his." Mary, ladies and gents, sorry for being late."

'We were waiting for you", the mair Ryan Wilson said with a salty grin of amusement, contemplating at the unexpected arrival as much as an unspoken dead threat would had come so close to slip from his harsh lips and even harsher thoughts.

"So glad to see your delight for seeing me, mair", he joked as some heads were turning, hands at mouth to spread some whispered rumours. "I'm bearing gifts", he said, satisfied as he saw Mary's eyes sparkle with that glow only found in those of children on a Christmas morning. "May the time always be in our odds, Marry", he said softly at her aproach, feeling her unsettlingly sweet fragrance covering every inch of her skin where it was uncovered. He followed her eyes, darkening in that pleasant semiobscurity of the closure, the parlor's guests seeming to be fading away slowly as he saw what it was all about.

A cuckoo clock would've been an intriguing thing to get as long as you're not willing to sleep covered with your own fortune, but for Mary, a girl who'd been spoiled by her dad that has been a senator, an controversial figure for those who claimed that there is no way that he could prove the money's provenience, no matter for the function he occupied, was a gift that brought a genuine smile on her face.

As for her father, the newspapers always created one hell of a reputation along his name in the title of the first pages, becoming something like an uncaught thief exploiting an unknown source of fortune. More of a conspiration theory, everything remained unsolved, and like that, the Jacksons were worthy of their money and domain that contained, among other richies, a mansion that could have been easily thought to be more of a palace. It looked like he did a pact with the devil, or just had an inhuman amount of luck that made others so envious they started to make up things out of thin air. But who would believe, other than insane ones, the stories that could build up an even more insane plot around some faustic myth?

The night started clean, but little did they knew it was going to end up messy. The glasses alternated between full and empty, the laughs were showing their faked joy as they were spreading rumours about politics and so on, not a word about the reason that they gathered for.

"So", the mair interfered a little too happy to not question whether he was sober, "why were you at the funeral, Urie?" he said, any way but in the polite manner that he used to show off in front of women especially. "Did you knew the girl...", he mumbled ambitious,... "did you....did you knew Lisa?"

"Please, let's not bring...", Mary protested, and if looks could've killed...

"Oh no, Mary. Ask", Brendon insisted intrigued, his breath stiffened with the urge of violence. "What were you going to say?"

"Why no one asks why did Lisa died? What happened?" he raised his tone in frustration, looking rather apologetic towards Mary. "We went on a damn funeral and we knew nothing!"

Mary's eyes grew wide with frustration, the shock filling her with the urge to leave.

"You are making me responsible as I don't seem to fit between you", Brendon accused rather calmly, his sweetened tone making Mary bear that heat of the moment. "I apologise I don't fall as low as your standards go, but being someone accused of murder now, I think Mary would defend me as I have no proof of my innocence", Brendon said as he used his sarcasm as a sweet weapon for the stupid ambition of that mair that couldn't be more than a rich bastard whose will to show off it is more of an ambition to play God.

"Brendon", Mary insisted with anger, looking rather disturbed.

"But as for my reasons to be at the funeral were genuine, the way you acted back there made me sick as I had to witness the way you were exploiting the grief of a mother... a mother! All to your own fun and games! Was it worth it?!" he whispered as a subtile bent over the table described his means.

"Listen to me, you son of a..."

"I want this to end now!" Mary raised her voice, not even with a bit of fright, but disgust, as her eyes followed without worry the tremedulous looks on the face of the men. "You want answers, not some fancy dinner and I understand the rumors, but I want you to be patient. There've been always, always!...some conspiracies around my family I couldn't make them stop."

"No one believes the things they said about your father. Those stories are rather hilarious, preposterous", the mair intrefered with that thought that was making her, other than thankful, weirdly relieved.

"As for my daughter, as for my Lisa...",she was searching desperate for words rather to calm down the urge that put get at the verge of crying, keeping it all back,...

"I heard she was killed", another man intervened, to the shock of others who pretended with such filled with hypocrisy looks on their faces that they've heard that for the very first time.

"She was", Mary admited just apparently calm, barely lifting her eyes to meet the curiosity that filled her guests' gaze.

"But...you never looked for the killer. You never let others know, the authorities...", Brendon continued confused, as he was so intrigued by that search for answers as it seemed to be a secret hunter.

"I had my own reasons", she spilled, too quickly to not raise so many questions that could've been read from the stained with curiosity lips of the guests.

Miss Jackson was a controversial figure herself, taking after her father in her own both unique and disturbing way. Knowing her was more of a curse bent by temptation, but getting to understand her was the complexion of a puzzle whose solving could mean the death of everything known.

Brendon, unlike the mair, found it more fascinating that the most probably a chance of an one night stand, as her status, not only social but the mystery itself could barricade her around the respect he'd own her. He forbid that insecure thought quickly as he saw the guilt in her eyes, that playful sweetness in that gloom that could make any mere mortal tremble, but the thought of seeing blood covering the tips of her fingers was too much to bear. She wasn't a killer, she was genuine, and he knew that from the moment he first laid eyes on her, both stupid children with even more stupid games that pulled them further from each other, later in life.

It all began with Mary meeting some damn lawyer whose reputation could've never been enough to her dignity, not in her fathers eyes, the senator who would had rather die than to see her daughter head over heels after some, after all, competent man who'd also helped him at his trial where he was accused of stealing as there was no certain way to prove the provenience of his fortune.

But their love was pure, and that was all that mattered, didn't it? Till the day something changed, something that let the question around who the real Mary was, the one that is hidding something no one seems to know. Till the day he vanished, leaving her with the offspring of their love that altered so quickly, and now that evidence is gone, being just burried, three days ago.

People raised the rumor - again, with their bloody gossip, that he ran from her because of something she did, like she would be violent in an unexpected way, not with him, but in her practices. That he found dead rodents in the cellar, with their heads off, but that are the odds of living in a weird, full of fanatics society who still are terrified of red headed woman and dead animals and so-called omens, ages after the Salem trials, or more like the slaughter incident.

That relationship, although, broke the bond Brendon thought he shared with her, that awful feeling that filled him with both rage and compassion making him follow her like a blinded fool, like she said, truthfully a stalker that couldn't show her how his interference in her life would change everything.

But like the said - reasons. She had reasons, doesn't she always, as a presumption of her sweet inocence, as a way of avoiding profitors' favours, as covering her all unlike that dress that something shows perfectly too much, strangling her waist so beautifuly that just as her, men couldn't breathe?

"Reasons are the last explanation we need", Brendon intervene as the seemed so silent. "We don't question your inocence, we couldn't even..."

"Then why are you asking me..."

"Miss Jackson", Brendon cut that conversation, words stabbing her in the guts at that unfamiliar way of telling her name, all like poison. "Your child has been killed and this is the way you cope? Do you think that it all would get better some day?"

"It never does!" Mary yelled, the despair lifting between her and the guests, whose smiles slowly faded out their faces, soon enough becoming a genuine description of the such disgusting pitty they carried with them for the poor. "It...never...did. Please, just...could you carry on?" she said as her trembling figure could've seen in a hurry on the wooden staircase, away from the hypocrisy and the hurtful looks that always wore that sweet, but full of venom smiles.

There was guilt in Brendon eyes, that kind he wouldn't hide for anything in the world, so ravishing as Mary's bone figure, so hurtful like his stupid ambition to prove something he knew it was so wrong. What did he done?

"You've done enough", the mair insisted as he carried his hand on his shoulder, seeming like an compulsive obssesion that he couldn't get rid of. "You can go home now. At least you belong there", he said as hurtful as before, as he let Brendon see how he followed her soon to get room and just seemingly vanished there.

He hated that kind of carnal desire, stupid ambitiously called love with a seething passion, that kind that filled the rage in the mair's eyes whose disrespect was a delict inclined to be profane.

"Alright now, it's all over!" Brendon announced as guests slowly protested as they were rushing towards the front door just to disappear into the foggy night of October, as he was staying there, rock-cold, seeming to hear every whisper his head would play tricks with, his demon on his shoulder being more of a tormentor of his hot blood and even hotter envy.

'Don't go. You can't' his mind contested his actions without a stutter, putting him at the verge of utter despair.  
'Who are you trying to lie to? They're happy'.  
'No', he refused that thought that filled his mind with a tint of sorrow. 'She is happy'.

It didn't take long till he was out on that door, leaving it open unwillingly as he went further in that dark night with even darker thoughts putting his worries in a battle between doubt and that silly feeling in his guts that they called love, and it was unpure, unholly, but sweetened by that betrayal that made his heart pound faster.

Later that night, a knocking could've been heard at a baroc-styled mansion surrounded by oaks, just enough to raise the dead by the silence disturber.

Brendon didn't even reminded himself how he was put in that situation that could, falsely in his mind filled with worry, stain some kind of manly reputation that a boy his age couldn't have, as he was seen by the greedy, rather mischievious elder as too young, that word coming like an offence of some kind. Not to mention the little offensive tone he'd been repeated in his head as he was imagining that door opening, revealing the woman and the man he'd rather murder than...

"You opened. Finally", he said with that stupid entusiasm that he's swore that would eventually get rid of, as a mumbling of some kind was just a shy try to cover the silence between them.

"It's late. Come inside", Mary spoke rather gladly, with that tone that made him move without a question, like in a trance she had been always affected him with.

"The mair...he...?" Brendon dared, eyes luring the answer from his..."almost" beloved, 'cause what world in the history has been sadder than "almost", covered with that temptation of getting that "enough" that couldn't be fullfilled?

It seemed like her lips could've read his thoughts, choosing words careful to speak for such a stained mind with things that no one knew. That was the curse and the fortune of one knowing her, all hidden between that smile so closely depicting a famous one who'd been framed to rot in a museum, on the other side of the world. But that one would make anyone hope it was ethernal, that could make them swore it would protect it with all costs.

"He is long gone. Not dead, to your displeasure", Mary joked as a smile appeared as close as it faded on Brendon's eyes, admiring her cleverness.

"Make yourself confortabile", she insisted as she throw a quick look over the inestimable leather-covered couch in the parlor. Not like home, because you'll never get to live here", she spoke in that sarcastic tone that make him a bit confused as he was watching her closely, not a moment of intention to just sit down to gossip coming into his mind.

"Mary, I've been thinking...", he raised his voice as the looked full of doubt...'You think too much, Brendon. So much you're stupid', he almost said to himself,..."we used to be so close, and I can't..."

""Used to"...that's not an odd thing to say, she interrupted cautious, like the way expecting every word as some kind of a twisted play he didn't know he was a main actor in.

"I couldn't bare to see you disappear with that lawyer of your father. And now...", he continued with so much anger it almost made him laugh with a nervous grin,  
"...now you are head over heels after that sychophant of a mair who doesn't know anything but to take his advantage  
out of your weakness."

"You discredit his support out of your jealousy", she confirmed without worry, her emotionless face being something that Brendon never saw in her, but he knew so well it was all a concotion of a lie. "And my weakness? You are the one being weak here as you've shown to my house with that disrespect."

'I've always respected you, maybe my mistake was that I did that too much', he thought, as silence has remained heavy between them.

"You were never there, but I was as I saw you destroying your life with that man who ran away. He didn't even came to Lisa's funeral, his own child! And despite how others did, the serpents that you still call friends, who wouldn't miss the opportunity to stab you in the back, I never asked you the reason why your beloved was so terrified to see you again. But you were never...Never, there!"

"I was,...always, Brendon", she insisted as she saw the frustration growing like a flower she was watering, like she would enjoy it. "But you never took a chance..."

"But could I? Could I, Mary? I always felt like I never stood it!"

"You still do. Shut up!" she blushed as the took a bottle of gin from the little bar beneath the couch, pouring the drink on two glasses and soon enough drinking the content as she passed the other one to Brendon.

"What? The day has just begun", she insisted careless as a quick glance over the cuckoo clock hanged on the wall reasured her it was just a bit after midnight.

"Your day starters give me headaches", he protested as he was starring seemingly endlessy at the bottom of that not so tempting glass.

"You child", she laughed ironicaly as the played with her hair, compulsively breaking it as it was strangling her fingers in that twist, piece by piece.

That childish part of him always was a embroidery of his imagination, twisted and shouted between words that could never hurt - or that was what she thought, naïve in front of the one who she could've swore she knew like the back of her hand that was scarred by lines and mountains⁴ of not so promised longevity and honorable faith. But myths are stories, weren't they? As long as the fulfilment of one doesn't stand in its strings that combine and separate, like some frightening game of Divide et Impera, all so well written in palmistry.

"You are so not the ordinary type."

"What do you mean?" Brendon insisted, shocked by the breaking of that quiet surrounding that made him question his place, as he finally sipped the drink nervously.

"Shouldn't you take a compliment when you get one?" Mary spoke with the benevolence that could've shattered so beautifully the silence like the wings of a butterfly being at her own tremedulous mercy.

Brendon smiled shyly, his head full with nondistinctive, stupid worry as he was rather flattered by the woman's behavior that was just pouring him another drink.

"The truth is I am not well...not even close to the state of mind I've been showing", she revealed herself, her insecurities developing beautifully in his eyes that could've so easily see her undressed of that fake appearance that the unstained society claimed as being the normality. "I want you to trust me... in front of them...", her voice broke, so close to that dangerously verge of crying,"... is just an act. In front of you I can't play that part...not anymore".

"They are serpents, not a tint of compassion has ever been in them", he claimed, the methaphor sweetening the sorrow of the conversation.

"Brendon?" she asked as her lips were seemingly proclaiming his name so seductive. "Can I trust you?"

"You know the answer", he claimed without a tone in his voice, rather disturbed by that seek of trust in a friendship that has been broken over time by a forbidden love, so clichèistical it could have never been fully revealed, but concealed, so no one could ever felt it completely.

"Why are you so sweet of me?" she asked rather out of a tingly curiosity that her dark eyes were searching chaotically in him.

The breath of him covered her skin like a veil of tension, such passionate frustration that would be worthy of a profane worship every inch she drew her body closer, their foreheads feeling the softness of each one's hair as their eyes, pieces of dark matter seemed to be put by the divine just to have their gaze meeting again and again, in that neverending game.

"You are not what others thought you were, I can see that in you", he answered as a whisper confirmed, looking after her softness in strenght, her needingness in her independence, her vindicative spirit cured by his undying feeling that could've so shyly call it by name.

And the moment slipped so destructive as she backed up nervously, step after step being watched anxiously by Brendon till her figure disappeared on the staircase, a door being closed to his delight that raised so many fantasies braided with a tint of worry and exhilaration. His steps were calculated, full of trust in his decision of paying attention to the surrounding of that mansion that he could've swore it would be embroided in his mind like a black silk around a strangled torso whose shape has driven his lust insane somewhere near three days ago. All it took was the opening of the door, to see her in the middle of the room as that pair of eyes were watching him greedy after his arrival.

"I've been waiting for you", she giggled in that state that made her like a illusion of a dream within a dream.

"Isn't that what we use to do?" he reminded like a deja-vu the first words that came out of his mouth years after the disturbing silence between them, that grew like a cancer inside him, disease fed by desire and that feeling of missing her, being like the funeral of his mistake of losing her.

The feeling of soft came out of nowhere in the tensionate air of frustration, the desperation deepened by the touch of lips which tasted salty, something forbidden and foreign, but felt like home. The strenght in their mind melted as their hands were touching the very edge of their jaw in some kind of an reflex that was made to remind them how they were supposed to feel like a long time ago, welcoming sounds made their breath harden with that mad-drivening pleasure. Shy hands were embracing the warmth of each other's body, desperate at the temptation to feel closer the skin that was tormented by every touch, so innapropriate that made them sinners without a conscience. The strings of her corset set her free of that burden of physical pain, letting the sight of that beautifully strangled for too long body to be enjoyed at his glance that greed turned it into a stare.

The way she was moving her body made her a tailor of his dreams, embroiding them with the tips of her fingers in his filled with wrath mind, taking the anger and frustration away with her seductive traits. Their closed eyes were deepened by the emotion beneath that pain, disgustingly founding a way of turning into pleasure at every movement, the bare feel of her being too much to stand, but enough to enjoy. There were no words to say in that closure, just a heat like a fever they couldn't sweat that they would willingly sell their souls for, just to put it on repeat, endlessy.

The climax found them in the ravishing desperation that ended them as she was finally clinging to his arms, shaking next to his body she'd learn it by heart like a poem she'd enjoy. They didn't say a word as looks would be too much to share, eyes glarring at the walls to catch a glimpse of that memory that should never die.

"Was...was this the right thing to do?" she mumbled as the silence was broken by the voice that was harsh as every word came with both entusiasm and exhaustion.

"I do think it felt more than right. Why worry, Mary?", he responded irritated by her lack of trust, his hand clinging tragically to hers as a naïve way to regain what he thought they had.

"Don't you see what I did? I just used you as a way to cope with her death", she cried suspiciously calm, as the wouldn't dare too look at him, hidding in her sheets. "I have never spoke to anyone about what happened, what made me do..."

"Do what, Mary?" he asked suspiciously, doubt filling his head with worry about her state of mind.

He couldn't afford to lose her, not again, and as she was holding tight to his body, he was doing the same, but to her soul, and it was so hurtful to hear the words that could've bent that glimpse of happiness he felt, that kind that terrified him at the thought of how far he'd went to spend every minute till the end of his life stuck to that moment without any will of redemption.

"I want you to go".

It was enough for him to make him freeze, that hot blood gurgling inside turning ice cold as her frozen temper at the beginning of a tantrum she'd shown with her very dark way of saying things, without worries or human emotions.

"Mary, don't do that to me. To us", Brendon insisted as he was desperate to see a glimpse of an emotion of her face that could be rather a painting of her own mysteries he'd love to hate.

That morning found him turning around in his bed, willing unconsciously to embrace with his arms someone who wasn't there anymore.

¹ petrichor = the scent of earth after rain

² in vino veritas = (lat.) There is truth in wine, meaning people who drink are the ones who tell what is on their mind

³ gargoyle = statue depicting an dyphorm looking creature that were often made to drive away evil from european cathedrals

⁴ lines and mountains = shapes formed on each person's palm that are believed, according to palmistry, to show one's life's aspects like luck, health, love life and longevity - characteristics read in "lines", and someone's personality and behavior - read in the "mountains"


	2. The poor groom's bride is a...

_It was so helpless to break the bond between them, the faith of his being like an cord to her maternal love that have always seen him as a child. It was like the way she pulled away lighted his desire even more, returning faithful back to her as his manly ego was stained with such pure love._

  
It was something in his eyes that paid the respect she could never have as a woman in a dirty society where men are the rulers and the weak sex is nothing more than an object of desire that need to maintain some kind of a balance. Little did he knew that the love was filthy with another thoughts, like a forbiden fruit she bited without any doubt.

"Take my hand, Mary", Brendon asked apologeticaly with that doubt and worry in his looks, erased by that moment of relief, something godly when her hand touched his in that grip that he could've swore it should last forever.

She moved like a snowflake in that middle of fall, too early for an old soul but too old for his young one, but how perfectly balanced with his fantasies.

"This is so old fashioned", she reported jokingly, as she was getting into that almost steady movement and that balance he putted her body in.

Somewhere as the country instrumental could've been heard at that dusty pick-up on Brendon's home, a sweet, rather old voice sang with such passion sad, but lovely lyrics that he still adored. His fanatism put her into the dance more ambitiously, seeing the almost hidden joy that have been lighting up his eyes at the closure of their bodies, at her slowly twist and turns and at a spin of her dress that suited her, so perfectly eye-catching.

"He said "I'll love you till I die"" Brendon sang quietly, not hard enough to cover completely George Jones's voice, as he was looking shyly into Mary's eyes, searching for a moment to see if she was delighted or disturbed with his interference.

"She told him "You'll forget in time  
As the years went slowly by, she still preyed upon his mind", he got lost into the moment, his grip pulling her closer till he was whispering the words, so quietly it seemed to be a restful dream he wouldn't dare to wake up from.

"You are childish. But I like that", she commented laughing, as the dance slowly in that embrace of their arms, so close she missed it so much.

"What's not to like?", he joked, watching her as she rolled her eyes at that ego he had to show up with. "When you told me to leave I thought you wouldn't want to see me again".

"How could I? I am so sorry, Brendon".

"Shh", he silenced her, his fingers so close to her mouth she stood still by instinct. "Don't apologise. Never do that. I was happy that you were back, at my house...at me", he smiled, looking after her gaze thankful. "It never mattered to me what you did. In your past", he thought for a bit, dark memories of her rage that made him go out of the mansion for what he thought to be last time washing away the joy of this very moment, "...I am sorry about being ruthless and trying to make you explain. You don't have to. Just be here, with me, and promise me you'll be back to me no matter how life separate us."

"It did once", she raised her head closer to his ear, whispering that sweetened words of dark past like a little lullaby. "It will never separate us again. I won't do that to you anymore. But I didn't know you sing," she changed the subiect so quickly to his disaproval in his eyes that couldn't find the true meaning of that little promise for her, seemingly small but oh, how important.

He nodded shyly, a little smile to fake to cover how he felt, but it wasn't enough to get her there, keeping like a trophy, and he knew it could be a sweet memory in the future that would break him with that overwhelming passion of the moment.

"God, I hate that song", she protested, making another turn for him that revealed the beauty of that silk that was suiting her so perfectly.

"Alright, enough dance for us two", he agreed, a little frown at the thought of how different was her taste in music could've been seen on his face.

"Will you stay with me this night?"  
her eyes begged, thoughtful as the was laying on the sheets that uncovered in his mind a not so lost, bittersweet memory.

"How could I deny?" he confirmed satisfied, as he was aproaching her, laying next to her as he could feel her breath on his face that drew a smile.

"Just to stay. Make me fall asleep. I have such bad dreams, Brendon", she insisted, figuring out the uncleanliness of his thoughts that defied her pristine purpose.

"It's late", he mumbled, wishing death instead of that silly response that could only show how tensionate he was.

She was making herself confortabile next to him - such full of pity pretextual thing, as the was putting her head in his lap, her hair spread over his trousers. She watched him in the eyes from that position, as a bit of trust could have been seen in her attitude and that full of pride smile that could have only been read as a sign of controlling Brendon in her own ways. He was silent, even his breath being slow as Mary was shutting her eyes down, hopeless images of horror being yet to come beneath the dawn of her gaze.

An hour passed and he couldn't be silenced anymore, words embraced by his thoughts slipping from his mouth at the peaceful sight of her - all just so close to silence his voice cracked harshly, with a husky tone that could've put anyone to sleep like a drug.

"I remember when I first saw you clinging at the fence surrounding the yard of the mansion you kicked me out from four days ago", he laughed silent, as his hand played in her hair softly enough not to wake her, remembering a piece of her laughter that still remained with his over years, all since childhood. "Back then it didn't matter the rich and the poverty, as we were kids. Me and my family couldn't even afford the price of passing the street, God damn it", came in Brendon's mind like a dark disease of how helpless he still is in front of her, in front of her so-called friends and that hell of a mair.

And if it was the fortune of his will in his own soul that would make her happy, she was something he would conquer for despite the means of the well known adversary.

"You let me in as it just happened for me to be there, I remember, despite the denial of your father. The senator...ugh, had such high standards in friendships I don't think he'd ever found a genuine one. I don't know why you chose me to be your friend", he discredited himself, as he couldn't understand the way he valued her chioce in a manner of such importance he could never express.

"Fate is an odd thing to believe in, isn't it?But only I could ever dream of affording you, your very soul I thought back then to be kind. That's why I don't care about the rumors they're spreading about you. You, Mary, are no killer", he reassured of that thought that haunted him, putting a weight of worry on his shoulders, and he was yet so desperate after relief, hearing in his head heavy words of others with no remorse, no plan of repent of their sin of lying.

'That's all what your friends do. Lie', he thought, as he was feeling her pulse through her dress, and it seemed so inocent as she was sleeping that all his anger was taken away just by looking at her. How could he even have a thought that she'd become, from his medicine, a deadly poison?

The entire year passed heavenly, with lust as their virtue, hidden on traces of love and touch drawn on their skin, under their sheets, till it was May, and she was gone, but not for long, and Brendon had nothing to worry about. She told him, she promised she was going to get back to him, and he put the faith in her words like it was an uncorigible truth he accepted with so much gladness.

He should've kept telling that to himself, little did he knew what was yet to come. And if the biggest sins in human history have been made in the name of love, he had to find out the hard way how it was, in fact, the lose of it, under the bitter pretext of a lie.

The happiness is in the little moments that weights a fortune, that fill our memories instead of pockets - something that cannot be taken away by the greed of the moment. Wouldn't the love he carried for her allow him to be happy for her fulfilment of dreams, for the sweet end of her continuous pursue, even if it meant that he would be left behind to watch, to be worthy just to be a coach instead of a player?

What a beautiful wedding was between the one's who can fill the void in their soul with the lie in the heaviness of gold, forgetting the golden days they've had like those never occured. A pearl white silk dress that took eyes and envy at every step of the bride to the groom that was drunk with expectancies and pride, because despite all tries, he was the chosen one, and no chance standing for the poor in front of one who knows it place in the society. If only he'd knew his place in her eyes and soul...

Her heels could've break hearts at every step she made, happiness in her eyes seemingly seen as the was looking with no doubt or confusion, and the knew she was doing the right thing.

They were all expecting something - the sweet love words and promises, hearing that "yes" that would end it all, the dancing, the cake for gluttony indulged bodies - reasons and reasons depending on every guest, but the moment was going to its closure. But the rumours couldn't be kept now as the dirty mouths couldn't be silenced, and someone knew it all and it was too late for turning back, for quieting his thoughts, for understanding and forgiveness.

The priest smiled gladly as the look on his face betrayed his sharp memory - he remembered Mary, even if it was a less than a year ago the moment he last saw her, and he couldn't hide his gladness at the thought that the mother whose child died was getting married. It was just a miracle that he'd fulfill, a pattern between death and life, loss and renewal, like it was the fall and spring. For her, it was more of an unclean business.

"I love you", the groom started, glad smile hidden in his features that were pursuing her all, with small imperfections of the artist, because only a hand driven by talent could've put on the canvas of society the image of such wonder yet despair among those eyes of her - a Creator itself that the groom gladly worshiped, and his freedom was his offering.

"I love..."

"Mary!" a heartbreaking sound of a man's voice tearing spart could've been heard as an only thought to be unknown presence could've been seen, and only his eyes could've read the despair of the feel for loss and the grief that drew so deeply like a wound the betrayal that has been her wedding gift for him. "How could you lie to me?!"

"Brendon?" she dared to ask, non-apologetically but more confused, as he was an unexpected arrival she desired to get rid off rather than to embrace.

"I thought you were honest! Him? Why him, Mary?! You...you promised me! Promise me that you'll stay. Where were you when I needed?"

"Oh, please!" an disgusted soung could've been heard as the mair was looking despisingly at the intruder. "You are interrupting our wedding. Get lost, son!" the bride intervened like the persona non-grata was a young boy who didn't valued mature enough the needs of their vows, their fake wedding with even more fake love that was never shared between the looks in their eyes, between feelings that would driven them mad - but only the needs in the carnal and financial pleasure.

Only if Brendon could've found maturity in that, he'd swore he'd want to be a child forever.

"You promised me! Is money what you are after? I thought we were happy! The bride...the bride is a whore!" he heard himself say as he felt his throat harden with that stiffness that was hidding a cry out, one of despair as hands were pushing his towards the exit, as even the guests were covering up the undeniable truth.

The denial was a stage grief couldn't contain any longer. Was he a loner - he couldn't care less - as he was clinging to the sheets that used to cover so perfectly the curve of the body he learned by heart and that still had something that triggered him as it was yet to be discovered. Not anymore, he thought, the restless night made him turn his back to the sight of the empty bed and more empty soul that was desperate after affection.

The heat of his body was shutted down by the lack of desire, no needs in the carnal yearning and still pursuing her words that carried that raw compassion, something that would be like coal he would have turned into a diamond by his perceptions of her. His dream in the morning was of sweet music that would indulge in his brain the sound of peace as a beautiful wedding was fading slowly like a never-ending valse. 

But the morning - the morning turned his dream into a nightmare. It was all over the news - the cold-blooded suicide that creeped the whole mainland with the brutality, the hand of a desperate man apparently being the result of the stained scene. Brendon couldn't even deny it was something that was rotting at the middle of the story, and it was another thing than the corpse of the senator, who missed the wedding of his own daughter.

And after all what his very own eyes and to see he still handled so difficult the thought of Mary's sorrow at the death of her father, but it could have not be an odd coincidence that the suicide was discovered a day after the so fresh wedding. But the lack of evidence silenced his thoughts as he was waiting for proof - why would such a wealty man give up on his function the very day he killed himself?

All the answers should have been revealed as the time passed, and it was quicker than he imagined. But the problem was in time, the short amount that made his world collapsed as Brendon knew from that moment that the world is filled with mysteries that could terrify and heal all the burdens his life drew ahead. And the lie and mischief was going to be shown that night, one night that he would always remebered sadly, as the thrilling and despair would make him feel like drowning.

"What are you doing here?" he asked, bitter words hurting her like poison as the was standing in the doorway, exhausted.

Mary Jackson was indeed a hell of a woman who seemingly couldn't afford the luxury of depressing the raw side of her feelings other than in words, so the watery eyes were almost hidden due her need of showing up strong. Stupid needs showed in front of someone who knew her so well like a cheap carnival mask he despised for so long.

"We need to talk."

"You have a husband who is waiting for you", Brendon cutted his word like a sharpened knife as he couldn't help looking her in her eyes that wanted to share a story that only she knew.

"No, no...", she mumbled as her look seemed to beg for trust, things that the had lost in the moment she said "I do"..   
My father..."

"I am sorry for the senator, but you have to leave." he cutted her out bitter, expecting to close that damned door in that beautiful face of her.

"No one understands, but it was done so clever..."

"What did, Mary?" His doubt made him weight the situation with precaution, looking at her like at an enemy who would sign an armistition with.

"My husband is responsible for the death of my father". "Because of me"

"Why didn't you go to the police?" He cutted shortly that nonsense, even though his gut was keeping preparing his mind to take her words as an reliable explanation.

"He killed himself, no proof of what I am telling..."

"Why is he responsible? What did he want?"

"His position as a senator." she said disturbingly calm, like the Death of get father would have been nothing compared to the situation of his loss.

"He quitted before commiting suicide. What did you husband knew that affected you father so much?"

"I don't know", she denied, and he knew, from the depths of his instinct, that she lied. How could he not know a part of his soul good enough to discover when it is shutted down by guilt?

"You do. That's why you are here. You didn't knew where else to go! Stop lying to me, Mary! You hide something!" he yelled in frustration, not a bit of trust sweetening his childish voice that used to tremble her body.

"If they will find out the whole story, they'll kill me, Brendon."

It was simple to say - and get terrifying, bringing him at the verge of questioning all his decisions. But ne never questioned her before.

"The wedding was fake." he spitted harshly at her poor decision of getting a man who was rather responsible for a terrific murder.

"Not for me. I hope it would have ended up good."

'No you didn't' he barely could handle to stay still, his voice deep by a fake lack of remorse.

"You despise your father. All you've done before was a way to prove him wrong. You ended up with the lawyer because he wouldn't have aproved, and now...he knew the mair was against him and the fact that he tried to make you to stay away...made you marry him..."

"You can't blame me for this!"

"Let me help you. You are the one who can end this."

But it was too late, and he knew by the odd, but familiar look in his eyes that Mary Jackson was past saving.

"I don't think I can this time"

 


	3. Abreg ad hābra

_How beautiful yet mortal is to love someone who can't love a thing. It's in their eyes, and you hope you are wrong, that it's just the exhaustion, pretext after pretext till it hits you hard and you know. You know there won't be a slight of redeption for the feelings they want to share, or those that you are rather looking for desperate till you find none._

  
Brendon learned the hard way what it meant to love in the most raw circumstance of uncondition, without receiving back the gift he gave to her like an offering on the altar of his own feelings that ended up in the making of a cold blooded sacrifice.

"I have to show you something, quickly, before he gets back. I don't want him back", Mary protested, stupidly in his head as he followed even with more hypocrisy the woman who he knew was a liar, a thief of his own heart.

The mansion wasn't far from his home but it seemed for him like an eternity to get in the garden, his hand numb in hers, without even trying to ease that bond that was like a sweet poison reminding him of days he thought was being loved.  
They didn't get inside, but in the back of the garden there was this wooden door in the ground, stained white blossoms covering it like in a fairytale he wouldn't fit in properly.

The darkness inside overwhelmed him as he could hear his breath that went fasten, driven by curiosity and something at the verge of fear, something that made his mind filled with wonder and awe when a light of a candle was ignited.

"Mary, what on Earth is this place?"   
Brendon asked suspiciously as his eyes searched his path through the blinding semiobscurity, rainsing doubt at the sight of the woman who seemed to turn into a mysterious, yet terrifying silouette.

"A piece of Heaven, isn't it?"

"No, that couldn't be...Mary, no", Brendon protested as he almost whispered like a prayer he'd still wait for a response that will never come. "It's far from it", he insisted as the curiosity made him came closer, inspecting the place to his own will, the scent of wood and what other condiments Mother Earth itself seems to have made to the humans delight.

"You would all think I should be punished for tempting fate", she rejected his already known thoughts to what she'd take as an improvement. "But don't we all?"

"I'm not supposed to be here", he complained, a scared thought going through his mind as he was watching the surroundings in horror.

Her hands, moist with the scent of fear of rejection surrounded his arms, heavily but still lightly as her will was to stop his disbelief.

"They'll send me to the gallows. I am vulnerable to your will now, Brendon."

"But why you?" he asked shyly as he couldn't even sense the asking of forgiveness in her words, in her eyes that couldn't have told a story he'd find her salvation in. "You've had everything, yet you are doing this awful, Devil's..."

"Do not believe the mouths that would ever accuse me of doing the Devil's will, Brendon. Do not trust those fairytales in which I would play the role of evil incarnate. I am binded to nothing", she claimed as she cuped his hands in her's, like a hard try to make him remember to whom she was binded all along, and no creature in creation nor pact would erase what they've had still the very moment when their eyes met, and their juvenile curiosity made them grow together, but so often apart.

"I understand your neclarities", she assumed as she came closer, painful closure that made his mind twitch in that reminding of how they used to be, what seemed to have been once upon the time. "People are scared of what their mind can't comprehend, so their mechanism they use against the truth,...against their growth... is denial."

"You know it best as you denied what we could've have without giving us a chance, Mary", he responded with a bitter sarcasm that drew his smile across his face that was searching her memories at the fresh sight of her. "You are a ...

"Don't give me false names that could make me as mundane as a villain", the interrupted as she was avoiding his eyes, like a sinful lamb to the slaughter.

"False? Isn't that genuine as I can see your work neglected..."

"Not neglected. In progress", she admited as her giggling grew childish as the was overreacting her happiness that made her unique in his eyes. "This is my one and only legacy."

"Witchcraft? he intervened with doubt as his hands slid across the pages of a dusty grimoire she left on a wooden table.

He felt that past falling with strong, tempting voices at the signs of unknown signifiance that could turn his world to his own will, but it was too much, just to hard to own...

"That is not a right thing to do. God will punish you.", he said terrified of his one temptation, feeling the little devil on his shoulder calling his name as he would want him to fall into the surreal of his own greed... 'As He punished the senator', came into his mind, but he prefered to remain silent, to ease the stained past that surely was filling her mind like a disease.

"Is God proud of you, the righteous ones, as you deny his laws?", Mary provoked him as he was standing numb to that argument of her, so bitter. "The murderers that think they serve a better justice by playing his own role?"

"I feel like I am doing what is needed.", he bit his lips harshly, tormenting images flashing in his head as a cold shiver embraced his body with a sweat, result of the death that the brought to Earth like a reaper in a dark cloth, like a knight of the Apocalypse itself that was doing his God's will. But did he?

"And yet you have sleepless nights and guilt to bear. Do not lie to me, Brendon, as I know best how the victims stained not only your cloth, but mind. It's not a stain that'd get off", she claimed as her fingers slid behind his dark hair, playfully getting it off the forehead. "But tell me...", she continued suspiciously with a hypnotising gaze,"...will I stain your mind too?"

The silence was falling hard expecting for the winter of their thoughts, cold and heavenly in its sight of beauty between two souls tormented by each other's closure.

"No one will know from me, and you take that as a promise I intend to keep", he changed the subiect as her question was letting a cold vibe between them. "But one condition only", he continued with despise for the uncleanliness of his thought that was taking over his will, his freedom he chained up after a far back "hello" said somewhere in his childhood, in the front of a beautiful mansion he wish to forget, adressed to a little girl that grew so big as his feelings did...No turning backs from his urge to keep things as simple as his words spoiled with that little grin that hid so much even he was terrified of his own malevolence, but it took so long to convince himself that he deserves different.

"Do say", Mary asked almost provocative, that little "almost" in her action making him even dizzier with a glimpse of what he thought to be regret, poured like a fine wine in front of her. But little did he knew her cup was empty.

"What legacy is one without a heir?"

She raised her eyebrows with surprise as a smile slid across her face, genuine as her naivity that he enjoyed.

"You, Brendon Urie, are a clever man."

"As well as a quick learner", he seemed to take a promise without a stained conscience.

"We'll see", she aproved as a husky voice came from above, clear about the means as it triggered rejecting thoughts into Brendon's mind.

"Mary? Are you home?"

Brendon's remebered clearly how her dress turned as her body rushed up the wooden stairs, dissapearing into the void the night prepared for his sight.

"Where were you?" the question aired harshly as she entered the front door of the mansion, a little smile changing the frown that took over her face and so her feelings.

As a woman should behave like a lawful slave in the front of the husband, idea that grew so much into a man's only society, he couldn't expect less from his choice that chained his liberty away with an "I do" said in a church. Mary came closely, but the fear of his power was nothing in the eyes of a even more determined woman who knew she hasn't been born to be lesser than the man she swore to love, but not obbey.

"Outside", she responded careless as she was watching him closely as his anger, nothing more than stupid frustration due to his lack of control hardened his breath. "As I can see, you could make your own way in here without me."

"You are playing hard with me", he catched her wrist as he dragged her toward him, brutality in his senses that make him desperate being depicted so clear in the look of his thirsty with wrath eyes. "Expect from me to return the favour."

"I am rather playing leave me alone for the God's sake, unless..."

"God's? Your god is a frivol serpent", he claimed disgusted as his hand went tighter around hers, annoyed as the didn't even protested with the revealing of her pain. "Pray for his wrath to save you from mine."

"I know you well and hurting me won't make it better."

"You are such a free spirit I can't tame you."

"I am not an animal."

She defended in the most human sense.

"You act like one sometimes, and there is nothing wrong. But you know that out marriage is not based on feelings like love."

"It is all bussiness, I know. More like a prison for me."

"I mean, I know your secret, my dear, and on the other hand, you are a good catch. Every man would love to have you as a decoration put aside for their...needs." he said with a grin that made her stomach curl into some excruciating pain of disgust.

She was going to endure this man. And for what, would she think endlessy, looking at him like a disease she can't get rid of? For one small, pathetic, but terrifying mistake.


	4. One hell of a family

_Wild thoughts are one who is caught between the love of two killers who didn't stained their hands due their own will. The most sinful hands aren't those who were stained by blood, but those who remained spotless as they comanded. Persuasion is a strong technique of the great minds that set up like a game of chess who is going to be spared or slaughtered, and it was clear that dreams were only a walk to remeber the trap in the killer's mind as their name would be envoke to represent all their depravity._

  
'A mistake set into the talion law', it slided into Brendon Urie's mind, a pawn of the lawful whose conscience was stained with its own morality. How could he be clean as his mind was stained?

'Will I stain your mind too?' The words were ravishing into his very own head, mumbling with despair, till he focused less, fading into a void of a nightmarish night. Mary Jackson was playing with the balance of the justice game without knowing it bent from the weight of her actions. And wasn't there, right in that choice of her, a glimpse of free will?

There was no free will in what he did.   
Constraining was the word, even more brutal than persuasion, something not human, but righteous in the books written by man's hand. The metalic, sweet scent filled his lungs as Brendon's breath harden, quick sips of air being taken in an atempt for salvation as he didn't offer one. The begs were little, born in fear as guilty eyes shared with him a bent to the idea of redemption, others for that of escape.

What was left was lifeless, a vessel drained by his hands, and the blame should be inexisting. As he was taking his black cloth off, his victim was showing its own, as it suited so well the thin body, undeniably recogniscible, and then he knew...

"Mary!" he woke as his body was shaking in doubt when he saw where he was. The people were gone, so was the blood of his victim that was secretly beloved. It seemed like he was expressing his love in his head differently than the tender ways he should. It was only a matter a time till he understood what happened, shortcuts of the night filling his memory. The wedding, the suicide of the senator, the confronting of Mary, her dirty secret...All came together as he stand up in her so-called basement for crafting purpose.

And little did he knew that above him, in a room a sweet intimacy moment was being spent between two newlyweds, who knew their betrayal in their act of self-giving.

The fight was long gone, like a trace of what a bond between two who couldn't feel a thing try to avoid through desperate measures. But what made the pleasure of one's body be the opposite of the one of the soul, so filthy despite of the other cleanliness it would be like Heaven and Hell brought toghether only by a touch?

"We should stop", Mary whispered in his ear as he dragged her closer to him, to feel the heat that he thought naïve that would cure his coldness in his own soul.

Wilson stood as he could not understand her gesture of rejection, but couldn't help to trace his fingers along her curves, feeling the skin soft, but not flawless as he thought, with little marks from birth and freckles and all the things that attested the fact that she was sun kissed and world loved.

"No, you are not going anywhere.", he laughed as he felt her fragility like the one of the being who is worthy of becoming pray, frustration growing under him in the very act of that closure between them, between the heat and the coldness and all their feels that they could share on that beautiful façade.

"Your persuasion scares me." she put her hands on the back of Ryan's neck, feeling his backbones and so tensed fiber as he was standing still, and yet with frustration in that desire of her.

And then her touch faded slowly as she barely touching his hands, those who were unstained by blood but had an owner with such a twisted mind she accepted.

"We scare each other as we can't comprehend our diferences", he whispered in that husky tone that made her lust grow, filling her lungs with a breath almost shared with him, "Mary, make me understand", he began as the cuverture slid away slowly like their thoughts in their heads, revealing more and more to satisfy their greedy eyes that were stained with their sin. But there was nothing more in that act for her but a taste of what she paid for.

"I want to" she answered truthfully as her lips were searching for his skin in the need of giving him the feel of acceptance, as a challenge she took willingly.

"Yes", Ryan dared to say as he shared with her the feel of falling apart, and falling back again, as his hand were searching blindly the broidery that covered her body, an impediment for them that had to go away.

"But do you want to understand?" she continued as the felt vulnerable with her body but not spirit, as her mouth was sealed against his dishonest persuasion, despite for his lips. How could faith begin to grow from what is not understood, as the uncomprehence is feared?

They were quiet and yet their eyes shared everything among their incertitude. As they could have spend an eternity in that moment of self trusting, the impass of one moment made their feast finish unbearable, something the heat of the sun that kissed her skin and the rage that filled his heart couldn't equal.

"There is something wrong, and I can't..."

"I mourn your loss, Mary, but there is life after death. Your life after your father's", he assured her calmly as her eyes were filled with a worry she couldn't bare to keep hidden. "Why can't you accept that your father commited a mistake by taking his life?" he claimed in frustration for that sudden sadness that stopped their moment unexpectedly.

How bitter words traced like the sound of the gun in her ears, in her memories that revealed the scent of wood and something spicy, the tobaco filling her lungs as the remembered the genuine smile she wore as she watched her dad with nothing more than awe as he was crafting - that was the word for "it", for something she didn't understand, but he promised she will get it later in life. How she wished now that he never kept his promise.

"You never tell me what is your work" the little girl complained, as her father, seemingly busy faked a smile as he lifted his eyes from his piece of work. "A masterpiece" as he'd call it, polished as it looked like a key of some sort, the skull reminding the efemerity of one's short journey in this materialistic realm - it was all there in gis hand, looking beautifully gore as it seemed to be poured darkness in the hand of its maker.

"It's your legacy" he claimed proud as a closed box grew the temptation in the little Mary's mind as his father took it away. She couldn't understand the suspicious frown that dressed his face in that veil of sorrow unexpectedly, but his words stained her mind as even her little body trembled then.

"But my biggest wish for you is avoiding it at all costs"

Avoidance of the reason of curiosity is like closing the Pandora's box - the logical solution that can't beat the temptation. She watched the man she loved most become a stranger in her one perspective that seemed to shape the world, just like a reversed mimesis of some sort as her father always knew deeply that in his daughter's mind rested her biggest curse disguised so meschine as a virtue. But the old man couldn't tell the curse that bind the family as the salvation would be the sacrifice. And in every touch of his hand, in every craft he made, it was his design.

And then all faded slowly as she realised, her lips spelling hard the words that her minds could not longer held captive.

"There is no design in suicide"

"What do you mean?" he turned with a confused face as he watched her anger overwhelming her, as she avoided his touch.

"He didn't killed himself with no higger purpose as his faith layed on a higher cause!"

"You...you know nothing", he stuttered as he tried to understand the words she spoke si clearly, but obscure when the frustration grew in her, being fed with presumptions.

"I do, I do" she yelled as she pushed her body further, covering her ears as he could see how that despair changed her into something unrecognisable. "There is no guilt in a man of influence in the face of the people law"

"What are you accusing me of, Mary?" he stated calm, arms crossed out of boredom, in waiting for a response he already knew.

"I don't accuse. I see and speak what my eyes can see" But the knew her eyes were emotionless as the wished she didn't feel a thing. "And when I look at you, even when I look at that face of yours...", she claimed without guilt or regret, with a cutthroat certitude that was the human form of thunder and storms, "...I see nothing but a murderer."

"You have no right as you are my...you are mine!"

"There is no craft in strangling", she continued as his words, proof of the gelosy he carried seemed further than they were, like a memory that should not disturb her mind. "There is no craft in suicide, but art in murder."

"Your father was confused, and what he did..."

"You. You did", she accused rather softly as she'd seem to tell a story of someone's loss, like a fantasy being brought to reality like lore. "You killed him. You killed my father. And your art is rejectable as you couldn't sign yourself on your work.

"Sign?" he whispered unconsciously as his mind couldn't comprehend her belief.

"No clever murderer leave signs on his doing, Mary. And I didn't kill anyone, for God's sake!"

"You made no design in the sacrifice for his position as a senator. Like you couldn't bare ro cheer the exchange. His life for your power."

"Sacrifice? That is your belief?" he laughed irronically as he was rather scared of the feels that surrounded his mind as he looked at the woman he married. "That is absurd and outrighteous!"

"Where is your righteous contribution to what you did then? Why is it in the hands of my father? You are no man as you have no dignity."

The heat grew quickly as the surprise in her eyes, anger feeding on that act of revealing his true self. He hit her, her cheek turned red as the disgust for him turned her into the one who swore in her mind that would he the one who'd end his life. Shaking hands put her gown back, revealing less and less as it was being weared long, floor-touching and with a closed soul, as no tear would humiliate her in front of his so-called manly authority he'd wear around prideful. She didn't say a word nor a sound of distress as she leaved the mansion, leaving him behind just as her fake feelings for him.

Disoriented as almost his entire time of existence, Brendon Urie just came out of the basement. The sleep was indeed cheerful, not as happy as his memories spend there or his headache caused by an unappropriate position he fell asleep in, but little did he knew the drama orchestra was following him like he was Paimon¹ itself. And as the camel wouldn't be comfy as its difficult back would be a incovenience for a ride, he chose to take a walk home by foot, faster as the Jackson's garden seemed taken out from a horror novel he'd never read because he hated all what meant cliché.

And the expresion of his face would have screamed if it could an "oh, not again" as the saw Mary sad running towards him, and the mair, the unreplaceable pawn in that story opening the door of the mansion like a stalker he seemed to be.

"Can't you see that he is a bad influence to you?", Ryan said calmly as he disturbed the silence of the garden. Like he knew and accepted their love but like a disobedient kid he like to break others toys as he lacked his own.

"Weak poeple are those who are vulnerable to one's influence", Mary stated as she watched closely the look in Brendon's eyes that traced in exchange the admiration for her. "He is not as I don't consider myself weak."

The night spend at Brendon's home was restless as they could both feel the uncertain future that stayed above like Damocles' sword². There was no reason for they to talk, to love or hate, as they would watch the sky above a rusty window like two strangers that wouldn't want to meet each other. At least they had a roof, a refugee place to run from the wrath of the world, from the murders and to have their belief that, even if the faith is already knitted, its material would be in their favour.

The element of surprise of the next morning was the receiving of a weirldy looking box and a letter.

¹Paimon = goethic figure from Solomon's Lemegeton, Ars Goetia; demon that is depicted riding a camel and having an orchestra following him

²Damocle's sword = imminent danger


	5. Friends are snakes

Ryan knew he should have expected that from the beginning, but his mind wouldn't have warned him that would be so soon. It seemed like the piece of paper in his hands warned him about a disaster without even reading its content, but the worries were lesser form time to time during the acceptance of what it meant.  
"To Ryan Wilson." That would have been enough to met him know that no one else should find out about it, being suspicious as he began to question it.

 

_"To Ryan Wilson,_

 

_There is only a way to express how thankful we can be as we found out from the press what you have commited. We can only presume your trust have been earned as we managed to clean up the evidence of your doing, as it was also in our advantage. Your hit was a proof of courage and also a step forward our desired results. The heir of the sentor's fortune should've received already the rights to her father's properties. Among that there would be a particular box that contains what we are needing._

 

_One fact about the deceased is that he was a paranoid bastard who knew that our purpose was retrieving the key we once owned, so getting the key that was inside the box is impossible without a particular knowledge that I assume that must be something shared between generations. Something Mary Jackson know, but isn't aware of yet. Our only chance is for her to remember as the box is made after a system designed by DaVinci himself. It seemed like in his case, crazy equals genius._

_We don't lack trust in your precaution as we know you know the right thing to do. Let your patience be your main virtue,_

_Gerard Way"_

 

  
Short story, Mary Jackson accepted the condoleances from the lawyer quicker than the rights to her father's fortune. Among money and properties that she received and couldn't count less in her eyes, the note in his testimony that attested the existance of a particular box was found intriguing by the senator's daughter. And the reason behind that is that the knew the day she've seen that box, as no one should remind her what was its content. The worry became overwhelming over the thought of her father's words that hoped she would never have to use its content.

_"But my biggest wish for you is avoiding it at all costs"_

 Little did she knew that it was just the beggining, and the thing she one was the modern Pandora's box. Ryan hid one letter in one of his drawers and hoped to forget it there forever. Now all he had to do is wait...but for how long?

 "And it was the box of your father?" Brendon asked suspiciously as the watched Mary jubilate like a child in that chiffon dress he never saw before, carring the box like the precious artefact it was, like it was all that has left to remeber her of her paternal figure. The "sanctuary" seemed more cheerful than ever even with all those dusty books and tables stained by sulphur and lead over time.

"He never talked much about it. I found out at some museum it is called a criptex after I was angry he wouldn't tell a thing. Uhh, he couldn't tell me a thing...."

"Maybe he was trying to protect you from something", he mumbled thinking deeply at the strange habits of the deceased senator. "Tell me what you know." 

"It is... some of DaVinci's pieces of work that is more like a puzzle of some sort." she explained shyly at that limited knowledge that could not have solved a thing. For the first time in a long period, she felt vulnerable to get own incapacity.

"Why would he send you this?" Brendon pointer without a trace of understanding the little box that laid in her hands, like it was a precious treasure that was yet to be discovered.

 "Because it is what is inside it that is important" she smiled with determination, shaking the device as a clinging could have been heard inside, like a sweet carol of the bells of misfortune.

 And from that moment, she knew for sure, as well as the image of the father came into her mind, with all of that tobacco scent that drew closer her curriosity of the man who was an enigma himself, what it was all about.

 "And...you know what it is?" his curiosity drew him closer to her, his expectation of am answer growing like his frustration of being in that game an useless pawn. His family, after all, left him no valuable legacies that were ro be found out unless the emptiness and poverty itself should be worthy of a discovery.

 Brendon Urie knew that the only rich was the love he carried for an even richer woman, but the faith turned his knife at him as she chose the poverty of another's soul.

 "It is the Devil's key. And don't!... make a joke about me doing the devil's work again", she implied angrily but her tone made her smile hysterically.

"All right, all right", he laughed as he sensed her irony, imagining her with a broom that could not him with and afterwards fly of the window, rushing to the kingdom of an ambitious magical goat of some sort.

 "But it needs a code i don't know", she continued with sadness as she laid her arms down. 

"But what if you break the box?"

 "The content is destroyed. It is a liquid that could easily break and somehow destroy the metal of the key", she denied rapidly, and Brendon could have seen the crack in her heart that couldn't be covered by the certitude tone of hers.

 "What does the key open?"

 A shiver went down her spine as she could have sensed the miracle that lied so close to her, she could hear her name in the process of a desirable salvation.

"You can escape with it from Hell." 

"But..."

 "I know", she silenced him with her fingers that drew him to the acceptance of silence as she pressed one to his lips.

 "You are no believer. But let me tell you" she passed, looking at him with an admiration for his childish naivity, so pure that the had to break, had to, because staining another soul would be easier than having to bare all the burdens alone. "I wasn't either".

 And Brendon thought she didn't love him? Foolish thought, as her love was beyond the one of two lovers that meet and separate in this mundane, material realm of finders and weepers, of king and servants, of white men and black slave, of men and his women. But he could not understand how different her expression of this feeling went out to reach him.

 "Only a blind man would have complete faith in something that was never proven", she continued with determination in that tought, along with a slight resentiment Brendon felt.

 "Or a desperate one", he understood, nodding like an expression of commiserating, as he felt the pain she bared along with that smile that always would hide a mysterious frown that only the stain-minded would see. She was right all along.

She stained his mind, too.

 "You are afraid"

 "Not afraid", Mary defended her pride, as he indulged it without denying. "Just prudent in what is yet to come".

 All was like a gore tale with mermaids that lure the men to them just to take them into the abbys, the burden of the world they obbey, where mortals are toys and fun. And Brendon dar just like the fisherman that, as he vad nothing else to lose, embraced the creature with his human compasion as the abbys stared back at him.

 The unknowing of what was get to come hit him like a wave, a tide that tingled him with that feeling of lost, of not getting to the shore. And it was certain the point that Brendon was going to drown in that silent design of death.

"Something tells me you didn't ask me to come here just to show me that...criptex", he mumbled the word, a bit happy for pronouncing it in a correct manner.

"You figured that out", she smiled, satisfied as she get behind him, towards the rusty table of practice where a Sigillum Dei Aemeth¹ was being forged in the metal.

British reinterpretation of eastern magick, as she would call it, the script of the knowledge of Solomon, the son of David seemed to be starring back as it would come to life and try to whisper unknown knowledge of an overall god who was depicted differently in each religion till poeple fighted, as they thought, for a better cause.

"I was ashamed at first. But it proved me what I needed to know." she said as she took and old journal off the table and opened it appearently to a random page.

 

_"May, 1894,_

  _I was a bit concerned about who to trust in the protection of what I've got. I met a men that overwhelmed me with how much did he know, but I surely hope he is not going to turn into a threat for the legacy. I don't know how he could find out all those things, as my father assured me the key belonged to the family and no one else. That makes me wonder if it belonged, indeed, to anyone outside the coven that would want it back._

  _This man, Gerard Way is the leader of a cult just like ours, but that doesn't mean he needed to be trusted. I acknowledged that the best thing to keep it all at distance is putting the key into a criptex. No one should know about what could open it, but Mary would figure out everything sooner or later. I wish she could know what I hid from her was a measure of safety._  

 

_October 1895_  

_Today I went to discuss with Gerard a problem I couldn't keep any longer. He helped me with my promotion as a senator and that thing surely won my trust for this man as we all keep it at a first name basis. I told him about the cryptex and he agreed as long as I could share the opening code with someone. My prudente could not let me tell Mary right away. I hope she could forgive me for that."_

  

"I forgive you", she whispered, as Brendon saw for the first time how the woman she loved weeped a tear, such a sweet sign of empathy.

"It's ok", he hugged her tight, going that his arms could fight against the demons of her past. Little did he knew they were too strong. 

"Gerard Way is a friend and I look forward to his help in this delicate situation", the page ended, with a unusual looking rosacrux drawn on the corner of a page in the deceased senator journal.

"My father trusted this man...This Gerard Way.

 "He is a cultist." he cutted her bitter, seeing her how she rolled her eyes in disaproval.

"And am I not? He knew my father and we must find him."

 "How do you think you can find a man that appears to be like in a...shadow of his cult?"

"The sign my father left must be the symbol they are wearing as a rosacrux. And we will find Mr. Way." 

A silent sanctuary that turned dreams to nightmare was left alone by two enthusiastic dreamcatchers, as a particular journal fell like being pushed by the force of god turned to life by that sigil at an interesting page, where the calligraphy turned into a sloppy, messed up handwriting:

_"Friends are snakes and they bite you when you don't look. That was Gerard Way to me till this very day and i didn't even know. How could I possibly know?!_

And an end note was being the finish of a mystery that was yet to be solved, and waited to bite the hand of its disturber:

"I _believe my family is in danger."_

  

¹ Sigillum Dei Aemeth = composed of two circles, a pentagram, and three heptagons, and is labeled with the name of God and his angels, was an amulet with the magical function that, according to Liber Juratus, allowed the initiated magician to have power over all creatures except Archangels.

 


	6. A priest walks into a bar

The quiet city got disturbed by the high praise of the song of the bells sung in the honour of some god, as the church would wait new fresh brains to feed with illusions of a new life like a dream. But when a life is miserable, all that people like to do is indulge that beautiful lie that hide the incertitude that all fought and bleed for centuries. It is dangerous the belief in something that cannot be proven.

That lie stayed in the eyes of some angels above, with wings that seemed to flutter away on that ceiling, stained with atheistic denial of some who bear getting under them. The painting was indeed marvelous, and so where the little statues that filled the church with an old patriarhaical meaning. The front of the church was empty, a little sign at the roof taking place of the cross so representative for the believers in christianity - a different one, shaped like a circle with a skull of a man inside, all golden in the sunlight.

"I find it interesting that you kept your rosacrux even if you became a priest. It is pagan."

Father Way turned his head suspiciously, but with a grin that seemed to never fade as that feeling of superiority could have been sensed into his eyes. It was something even the years of obbeying a higher force like God couldn't take away, but only the Death itself, and his gaze lowered mischievious at the gold, thin rosacrux he carried around his neck like a treasure - a ring with the infamous skull.

"Each religion finds its roots deep inside paganism", he answered simply with a deep voice that differed so much from Brendon's, having an welcoming glimpse of happiness and chilled excitement in that sobre behavior. "That is a nonsense to believe I couldn't bring my belief here."

"You can't be a priest as you obbeyed to a coven in the past."

"You think you know who I am. But so do I, Mary."

His words were enchanted with something inefable, like a memory that you've never had but still awakens something you could swear you lived in a time that isn't out of this world. Who was he, bwside of a friend, a priest, or anything that society could descrie him in simple terms. From the looks in his eyes, there was a thing more certain than anything - Gerard Way was anything but a simple man.

"Did my father talked about me?" she muttered, almost in her mind coming that question without remorse of the things that happened, of the hatred she felt towards the individual that seemed so superficial. In a world that syperficiality bother, Father Way was handling his life at edge.

"No, but I know he had a daughter." he smiled like he had a secret to hide, disturbing for other, a pleasure for him.

"But how did you knew..." she asked with no vocal filter in her throat, looking unamused at that man who was defying her.

"...It was you?" he smiled unexpectedly, revealing that small, but sharpened teeth with a grin that was both lustful and terrifying. Maybe because of his words...maybe...who knows? "I know your father died. And soon after that a woman and someone I could not care less shows up with questions about my rosary. Only a Jackson would know its meaning", Gerard pointer towards her, like he was feeding with the odds of that accusation. Like it would be a sin to carry the Jackson's name among with some kind of a curse. "Oh, but you are shy. Poor guy, you are no Jackson as for them are a hot blooded kind." he got distracted out of a sudden by Brendon's presence, like he would have be more of a stranger than Mary was.

"No, he is an Urie. They are cold hearted instead", she defended Brendon as she threw a murderous look toward Gerard Way who was overly energic in that little war of them.

"I am sure of that", the priest said with that serious face he could win so easily jackpot in the defying beauty and joy of gambling. But could be Mary Jackson his winning that day?

"Friends come to the funerals. You were nowhere to be found at my father's", Mary continued angrily as Father Way was watching her so close he felt her perfume, dizzy scents of feminity and desire and knew too well he sinned in his thoughts.

He played with discretion with his hand in his hair, dark and of that medium length that made him look youthful, a deadly combination made with his exuberance of mind, while the eyes were watching her as a predator is looking for his prey, silently, and just waits.

"It were some difficulties I don't need you to know. If you are here it means you need something you think I could offer." he understood, thoughtfully as he nodded, showing a glimpse of the empathy Gerard knew it would be better to show up with.

"After my father passed away, he left me a cryptex. I read his journal and I know you found out about him and I wondered..."

"If he ever told me the code?" Gerard laughed silently, but alegeddly maniacally as he crossed his arms out if interest. "Your father was a secret holder. And yes, yes, you felt it, didn't you?" he asked, high purpose in his mind and words as he drew himself closer to her, inspecting her like a painting that he would wish to hang by the neck for everyone to admire it. "How he was hiding everything, being afraid to share his dark little secrets..."

"Father Way, despite the hatred you've shown I know you have a burden."

The envy, all a product of an unknown past was being tormented by the delicate fabric of her words that weaved something he hoped he never knew, but needed so deeply. It was like his soul was being grateful for the torment of that pride that kept his ambition alive.

"A priest being read by a pillgrim can't help him but think that his infamous guest is the Devil." Father Way assumed slowly as Brendon came to him into the urge of doing some sin into that so-called house of God.

It was him again, with hands clean but heavy soul, with no pain but a stained mind, as a hanged man was smiling at him with that grin that knew something he would never share. After all, we all know dead man tell no tales. And the hanged began to speak, sweet worse that drew him out of that state of peace of mind into the one of terror that was nothing else than his own reality that his mind can't change nor conceive, but accept. For the first time, his victim standed in front of the reaper as he was no longer accepting his penalty.

"Relax, relax", Gerard laughed at that hypocryte act as he didn't even stand for himself, "I have just used a methaphor that always slips the mouth of the all believers. Or...", he pointer toward Brendon who stared at him like at an enemy..."don't you know what kind of family you befriended? Or...what kind of creature, lady...whatever", he told bored as he rolled his eyes almost with desperate sass..."so malevolent"?

"He knows of my practise." she implied as a smile of wonder was being shown on Father Way's round, almost childish face.

"Urie might be a cold hearted kind, but also such a naïve one.", he depreciated his guest's choice as ge would measure him from head to toes in a pathetic regret.

"We just came here for answers, not to be impolite.", Brandon tried to ease that conflict as Gerard aproved out of boredom.

"Your lover is scared of what's next."  
Brendon couldn't even bear to deny his saying, and as a confesion he wasn't willing to make, he accepted that status as a blessing from the words of a sinfull priest with all dignity. "You should open the cryptex. You know the answer, Mary, you do.

"I do not..."

"Try to remeber. Your father's teachings and practise. He raised you like this to have a purpose and that is not expecting mere answers from a goethic figure¹."

"I have never met one, Father. My practise never dealt with inferior beings.", she rejected that statement with ease.

"Then you will. You will, and when you will do, you'll know."

"But you've met one", she muttered in concern, as she read so clearly in the eyes of the not so pious man the fear of something dark that stained his soul.

"I asume your father never told you about the one that visited him often after aplying to the coven. Daemon in a superficial term as it depicted, before the church taking the odds, a being of neutral will that was deemed to help humans. Let's just admit we all have our demons that we kneel to", he laughed ridiculously with the same apathy in his voice like a deadbed preposition. "But your father didn't, as he was looking for answers", he remembered, as a dark past turned his even darker memory like a movie he hoped to forget one day. For Gerard Way, hope always died last.

_The smell of wood and cologne could never conquer the one of trashy ciggaretes that filled the air with something less mystical than the speech of two friends in a day that seemed to be once upon the time._

_"I have told you, Will, my friend, that getting close to it will kill you. You admited to me it threatened you, for God's sake!"_

_Things have changed, Gee", the senator said with that stupid nickname Gerard could only found acceptable from his friend's mouth, a friend that was like a paternal figure to him as he was much younger._

_"This ain't suppose to be special! Thousands years ago a smart guy named Solomon locked this thing away. He was smart. You are foolish and the daemon sensed it."_

_"No, Gerard", he said peacefully as he seemed to have a kind of revelation totally opposite to a divine one. He cared about the child Gerard was, but he knew that such an experience as dealing with goetic beings would change him forever. William Jackson was terrified of the change but took it under his wings as he didn't care about what was get to come. Gerard Way wasn't going to be the same from that day. "It escaped because of it's cleverness. Goetic nature is purer than ours, as it has no contradictions but purpose."_

_"Its purpose is going to be the end of you. Had it shared its name as it should be willing to prove its identity? Will!"_

_"No, it didn't. I couldn't...convince it."_  
_"It's playing with your head. This night terrors you have...you must get some sleep. Just sleep", Way insisted concerned, as his hand felt hard in his friend's shoulder._

_"Gerard?" he stopped him from leaving the room. "It isn't only in my dreams anymore."_

_"It's not real, Will! You are scarring me!"_

_The senator never knew the one who left the room that day was no friend but foe, as it shutted the door, running in the hall like it would be for his own life._

"Isn't it better to know what each one should fight against? I know and I have seen all. Them all, he shivered as a flutter of wings was heard in the distance of his mind, but instead of feathers he knew that those were from a different material - the bare skin of the sinners greed, clapped like applauses down a corridor long forgotten.

"Mr Way, are you alright? Brendon asked, doubting his state of mind.

"Y-yes, yes. There is salvation in that key, Mary. You don't know what is beyond our power of understanding. But I've seen it. And it...it is worse than you can imagine."

"Father Way!, she tried to calm him down as he tremmored, but the must have accepted that he was past saving.

"Go. Now!"

"He seemed so afraid of what he saw that he tried to hide in the safest place he thought it would be.", Mary claimed as she went out of the church, peony and roses being wet and soft in the garden where an scared man was hidding from the demons of his past. Gerard Way was let there to be a kind of an enigma that was too hard to solve, but it was another puzzle await. It looked like for Father Gerard Way, hope didn't died - not yet, but only he knows what he hopes for; what is his real, deepest desire.

¹goethic figure = a demon from the 72 written down in Clavicula Salomonis  
  
  
  



	7. Nearly witches

_There is exuberance in the way the perceiving things for a second time draws back memories that could be long forgotten. And the betrayal lays in the way eyes carry with them things that saw once but never dare to share with the mouths that can never describe it. Maybe that is the reason behind our temptation for sweet words of reassurance of our worth, despite claiming loud that the act itself speaks louder than sayings._

  
The scent of fresh soul was carelessy in the air, after the rain that seemed to never start, but let its marks on the ground like a trophy of nature. The petrichor was felt again like a poison of the land in that sugary time of spring. Only if the human nature, its own soul could rejuvenate again like does the thing he needed yet destroyed most.

The quiteness of a churches land, filled with silent rage and torment was the preposition of a twisted change in belief, from good to villain, from godly to pagan. Even in the etimology of that word depicting evillness there is the unjust act of the all believers.

They were again in the safety of their thought to be awful place, with a happiness they shared without outside acknowledge. The basement of the mansion, the Devil's chamber as Brendon started to refere to it despite Mary's disaproval became like a school that created a tension between the teacher and its student.

Brendon claimed it as being a good one, to Mary tendency to giggling nervously at that childish flirt and lowkey let down manners, as the influence of the past started to opress the way of his thinking toward a new one that he was needy to discover. Like new ways of showing affection towards her, putting himself in an awfully sweet position of a little trainee that is delighted with things in a woman he can't tell.

She was married, but how can the insignifiance of a paper put a burden on those who could banish it's authenticity with what Mary said jokingly it was the casting of love? It seemed like the little demon that stayed on his shoulder knew better that in love and war, finders are keepers, and loosers...he couldn't imagine himself crying in the name of love.

There was one simple rule in the crafting - Sigillum Dei Aemeth was going to be used due to critical cases, as there was a bond too strong to be ignored the sign was making. Back in the day it was invented, there was a discovery which value was incontestabile of its crafter, who claimed the one thing any person dealing with witchcraft wishes - immunity to use against the abuses of those that forbid what they can't comprehend. Being the right hand of the queen was the ace tucked in the sleeve of a man that took all the chances towards one realisation - knowledge of everything a human can bear, and the ways it could have been achieved weren't always ortodoxist.

The protagonist of this story Mary was fascinated with since the moment it heard of it was names John Dee, a confident of Queen Elisabeth I herself, a highly inteligent person that brought respect among people that didn't knew- not all of them - what happened in the dark. There were risks in those days - as it is nowadays - in manifesting the bond between realms, and a the owner of a sloppy mouth could have been so easily imprisoned. After all, people were believers, but they were selecting their belief so carefully they couldn't contain in their mind something else than what they were thinking of and obbeying to.

And the need of development needed some sacrifice that began with the horror of one curse. Three are stories that many consider being generated from the rumors people spread out of their childish behavior, and those about forbidden knowledge are out of the need of people who leads to keep the people they rule uncultured.

There is a little reminder in the way the work and art of the people of culture belonging in the past have been opressed as it is continuously locked away in the Secret Archives of the Vatican, the "secret" not consisting in all-privacy. There is the book that started it all for John Dee, the remaining manuscripts from the Book of Soyga resting in the silence far away from the ones with the curious eyes. And it was invoked the apparently shameful reason that it is for a greater good, as the book is damned and can atract a curse for anyone who reads it.

And as it seemed a lie to the person whose inteligence couldn't substain such stories he claimed to be absurd. But the book was real - the knowledge it contained, too, and there was a single question left - what could be the reason for someone to begin spreading such horrible stories other than to hide a more terrible truth - the fear that others could see what that person saw and changed her forever.

John Dee wasn't making a premiere in the results of crafting, but in the practice of it. And as the curiosity started to rot at his own soul in the trying of decyphering the Book of Soyga, he invoked an archangel, Auriel in its real angelic name, most commonly known as Uriel. But the answers were leading to another and so on, till the solving of the mystery lied in the meeting of one being which superior side was unreachable in the life of John Dee - archangel Michael. In the end, to Dee happened what happens to every person in life - he died trying.

Many of his manuscripts were burned, as he never wished for someone to know of his craft - some survived through dark ages and are still reminded nowadays. And one of the things that remain carry a powerful name with a specific meaning which understanding may seem deceiving - Sigilum Dei Aemeth, the Sigil of God being the origin of casting beings from the other realm that many out of fear don't even want to accept their existence.

"Sigilum Dei Aemeth...For God's crying out loud, couldn't latin be more easily to pronounce? And I have always wondered why is it the demons' tongue?"

"What do you mean?" Mary asked with confusion as the barely turned to him.

"You don't know..." Brendon claimed with shy proudness in his voice as a small smile lighted up his whole mood like a torch. "Come on, Mary, I have read in books."

"Lovecraftian horror might be inspired from facts, but it is not all true."

"Never read Lovecraft...just horror in general. The kind that is told in front of the flames of a fire at night celebrations.", he mumbled, barely realising how little did he knew about the guy that became famous after he wrote a fantasy in which the antagonist seemed to be an octopus with a weird name. But then Mary's words striked harshly "Might be inspired by real facts." Real facts is not some words that Brendon could bare after finding out that his best friend from childhood has some dark ancestry.

"The kind that is untrue. Those are children's rumours to scare each other. Doesn't surprise me that those stories scared you, though", she said with a sarcasm so sharp that, if it were to be complete silence, it could have been heard the sound of Brendon's heart breaking.

"What us the purpose of it, after all? Some sort of...connection?" he pointed at that sigil that was hidding too much for him to understand.

Brendon felt like back in that day when he tried learning math to a teacher, and now he felt a glimpse of remorse as he realised he is on the verge of breaking his commitment made in the moment he claimed he will never try to uncode something even resembling to that weird, ancient, anxiety inducing foreign language. And even if this magick didn't contain letters, it was enough for him to realise that the symbols he didn't even understood might turn out to be harder than numbers.

"We will lose out connection if you don't listen."

"My apology, master", Brendon said without a joke but rather flirtatious, with a grin that was attended to get her attention in the moment their eyes met.

"You can control with it all beings that are lower in rank than archangels."

"It now sounds tempting to use it in the purpose of making you divorce and choose me instead." he nooded and shaked his head, rather appologeticaly.

"You can't persuade it as I am human. But you can use other tactics. More...human like."

"I always liked that. That...aproach, I meant" he said softly as he came closer, inspecting her solely as he felt that smell that he could have remebered anywhere - the scent of his home that he never conjointed with, that he loathed with passion that never made her indulgent.

"Are we going to invoke something?"

"No, I don't use this...

"Why? You are scared."

"I don't know how to tell this to you...but any time I come near it I feel..."

"Vulnerable?"

"As if someone would feel my presence. But it is only in my imagination. I can't summon something accidentally and out of thin air."

The magick was fruitiful - that was the word even Brendon would use to describe it - it was the deal with blood from the icelandic Galdrastafir and Galdrabok, sigils that promised the love of women and the pacts with enemies, the Solomon's knowledge that treated cronical disease at the pious prayer "Seraphim, Cherubim, adelphe"¹ as oils were used to soothe the skin of the ill, with that influence from the Greeks lands so ancient it could have been sensed even now the scent of dust and nature that history brought.

And in the name of Adonai², the one who shall not be named as it is below humans' nature the power of comprehending His omnipresence, they never touched Sigillum Dei Aemeth again, thing that made Brendon even more curious about the reason Mary would fear something evil, unspeakable.

But the day Brendon was getting distracted from something beautifully crafted in the library left him speechless - only to gain the strenght neccesarily to confront Mary about his utter denial.

"I found that next to your Grimoires", he dared as he saw her face turn to a different shade, unrecognisable. "And I read, and that means..."

"My father used to have this but the reason he tried to keep this a secret is unknown to me, Brendon."

"You never wanted to show me? But how can it affect you in any way?"

"I don't know. It is DaVinci's and my father was making his life an obsession. But no one knew the secret he held, what made him a genius other than his talent."

"Leonardo DaVinci has dealt with witchcraft."

"Hard to believe, but his friend made his path toward crafting."

"Why was your father obsessed with his work?"

"I. Don't. Know! Believe me!

The tension grew with a seething flame of lust and the urge of conjoining their lack of something undeniable, unspeakable. There was the neediness in their eyes that drew them closer, until that need stained their understanding,

"I can feel that this friendship with you will never have a dead end. Sometimes it might feel like I'm making up things. I remember the day I met you so vividly I can't even cope with the thought that it was not a dream."

"Some friendships are just a product of imagination. The memories you lost just to find them..."

"Mary? for the first time, it couldn't be felt the presence of love and care in his voice, but the placid, unsettling feeling of worry. "Are you all right?"

_"This friendship is just a product of your imagination!"_

_The unsettling thought was creeping on her skin like some deadly disease spread by the lie of her father. The hope in William Jackson's eyes burnt like candles as he figured out the undeniable truth of the omen, of that curse that was unbreakable._

_"It is not real, Mary! Not real!"_

_"I am not making this up!" the little girl protected herself as she was holding the tulle of her dress like a little defense mechanism against the senator's anger._

_And it grows, and grew like does the anger feed the fear, and take care of its development like a mother does to its child. Mary Jackson lost the maternal side of her feelings, as the domestic act of violence led her to wear unproud the signs of the past, little defects to her once flawless skin and bigger defects in her soul. Like the skin, with its own depreciation, scarred her heart too. How much giving of love could deserve some that took it all and changed it into something inimaginable, as the wrath, the worst of the sins in the human nature, was the product of the most noble feeling, of the inefable love itself?_

_The beating was bearable in the intensity of the physical pain - wasn't it ironic how careful does one chooses the places to hit to not leave a mark, without realising that no matter the scars of the skin, there will always remain some that are to be unseen?_

_All until the little Mary forgot the pact if that fruitiful friendship, with the amendamentstand confusion, with promises and compromise, with sweet words and threaten. It was her and her father, until the day she knew that, in the name of the bond between friends, foes are begone and there is fight to be taken in the hands of those who are loyal to their commitments._

"You are not making up things, Brendon. I wasn't either."

Do you remember, Brendon, when we were kids? I told you...told You I had a friend, my only friend other than you. And my father...

"Didn't accepted your friend? I remeber. He never accepted me either."

"My friend wasn't human. And I think my father tried to protect me from...it...in his own, twisted ways. I think my father knew him well, because I have saw him talking to it, but I couldn't understand... why wasn't I allowed? That thing was dangerous but I needed it and my father took it from me...He took my craft...My sigilum dei Aemeth and tore it down with an axe. An axe, Brendon! He was deperate to keep that thing away! The thing he summoned in the first place. The thing only him and I know. Is the only secret we share - its name. He didn't tell anyone its name. Could it be..."

"It could. It could, Mary."

But Mary did not know that in the mind of Brendon Urie lied an awful, terrible thought, and she should have not trusted so easily the only one that he loved. Because in his mind, only a word almost got out like an uncaged bird, but he was keeping it a secret he couldn't tell:

'Finally'.

¹Seraphim, Cherubim, adelphe = (ancient greek) invocation to banish disease as it meant "Seraphs, cherubs, offer help"

²Adonai = one of the 72 names of God in hebrew that people were afraid to pronounce


	8. Take me to church. Forcefully

There was one night before the criptex was opened, the last night when the mystery was still hidden. And the night before Brendon finally understood who Mary Jackson, the daughter of the senator, the woman raised to have a witchcraft ancestry was. And that moment was indeed hurtful.

Tiny hands of a malevolent soldier were playing childish tricks in an attempt to ease the excitement. In a suit proudly worn by the one with a stained past and dreams was the trembling body of a priest, with a serene face that could never allow the world to see his dirty plans as he seemed to play with his thoughts that laid at the tip of his fingers. After all, even his closest friend couldn't see the essence of the one who was nothing more than a twisted adversary, and how sorry could Gerard Way be as he lost that fake connection with that meschine senator?

The priest of the pagan beliefs, the friend of the decesed and with nothing seemingly left to lose was stalking with eyes of that messy expectation the sign carved by his hands with an ancient purpose revived by his needs. It was Friday, the day when the Morning Star¹ rises to change the patterns of the world, in which its interferrence is known to be essential, and it hasn't been long till the first hour of that day passed. The hour when the bait has been put by the power of both the forces form above and below, the bait that is going to trick someone into biting it harshly someone of a naïve kind, as Gerard Way was believing, someone named Brendon Urie. The horns of the beast were stained by five signs² with the easy purpose to make the victim be caught in the spider's nest, metaphorically speaking, that Gerard Way was weaving - all for a powerful message delivery.

"Come in" he said without turning around, still occupied with the rossary that he was still rubbing in his hands.

He could almost feel like the metallic parts were breaking and falling apart - it was so close to destruction; just in the same manner he destroyed the visitor's will with magick. But his aproach, or more likely detachment was even more playful, as he knew best the reason Brendon returned faithful in the church Father Gerard ruled was something not even Urie knew, nothing that his kind could comprehend. The guest was going to be heartbroken, a breaking that Way enjoyed - a breaking that, in any way that it could have been seen, it was the priest's design.

"I was just passing by and I don't know...I thought it would be a good moment to come in. I think it was a bad choice, truth to be told...", Brendon mumbled as his vision was like in an oniric plane drew by the phantasmagoric shapes of the angels above, with their innocence stained by their crafting where the creator itself included obbedience as there wasn't anymore the chance of Him to lose in front of his creation. Where there wasn't free will, there was chaos, and from chaos liberty was the most shuned act because an adversary...the Adversary³ was born.

The sight of the Light Bearer⁴ struck Brendon Urie with an awe of both terrifing chills and admiration.

"You thinked about it even when you entered here the first time", Gerard Way continued carelessy as he let his rosary to hang freely by his collar, smiling as his intuitive act let a disturbing silence to cover the church.

"Thinking...about what, Father?" he dared, checking the way Gerard was standing with that steadiness that made him look like a beautiful statue, a antropomorphic gargoyle meant to cast away all evil mankind feared. But instead of making it gone, he became it.

"You know that he was casted down for loving its Creator too much. And you seems the same mistake as you love with so much passion. There is a thin line between love and hate, and you stand at the verge of it. The verge between being the sheep that turn into the wolf."

"And who is the wolf now?" Brendon muttered in the hard try to depict the meaning of that insane methaphor.

"You know it is your Mary. You still let her be. You came here because I wanted you so, Urie."

The confusion grew bigger than any expectations if the infliction of something evil in that rather confrontation - seen this way in the eyes of Brendon, seen as a weirdly called business in Gerard's.

"You wanted me to? I don't...I don't understand, Father."

"Come closer" he said with a grin as he drew his looks further into the dark eyes of Brendon, closely inspecting his with a growing desire. "Closer", he repeated, imposing and shy, just seemingly.

The intimacy of that church rang the bells on the guest's mind as his lips were sore with impolite questions - were those speakable or should he rather wait, but the waiting was getting harder in his head as his thoughts were ruled by it, by that little reminder of the voice we call curiosity.

"Old habits never wash off, do they?" Brendon claimed sarcasticly as his vanity was at the thin ledge of letting his feelings to be shown in their splendor, but the pride knotted his tongue tightly.

He knew how tightly can the past life of someone come back to him, în saved of the storms he encountered, as faithful as the ocean, as deadly and perfectioned as a disease no one found a cure for. As Gerard's eyes were following Brendon's hands, they went lower and lower till they stopped, seeing the sigils being touched with a genleness born from awe.

"See? It's beautiful, isn't it? Doing whatever you want, playing all by the touch of the power the world yearns to offer you."

Gerard Way stopped, his eyes swiming through the memories gis mind kept captive, ready with wings to you, but they couldn't. Instead, his look was placid, shaped with a strugled desperation to rather acuse die to a vengeful will .

"The power religion took away...and persecuted and killed.... Killed, Brendon, slaughtered with the coldest blood, with the tools made by their inventivity to torture. Man put all of his imagination into crafting not to help himself, but to destroy others. As you did, Brendon."

Life leave the blinds when they close their eyes, And Brendon saw, into the depths if the priest's minds the beginning of what he tremmored for, like his life was passing just as a blind man try to find it's purpose. And it tremmored harder when he knew that what remained for Gerard Way wasn't his mistakes that stained his past ireconciliabile, but other's.

Father Way was nothing more than an empath who, trying to obbey to the rules of society, he understood them better than the ones who enforced them. Brendon Urie, the young man that had an undying love for Mary Jackson, and Gerard Way, the priest that secretly hold occult beliefs, are the same spirit trapped into different bodies that were broght together by the hate and understanding of each other.

"Yes, I know what you are dealing with. The corpses of the deceased witches that I hide just for a moment of giving then what they deserved and never got in their life - the respect the damn world owned them!" Gerard's Way frustration grew wide as his expectations lowered, breaking away the hope for the better and resuming it as the words were getting even bitter. "People, Brendon Urie, are afraid of being powerful as they don't aknowledge how much good they could do, as they fear the evilness inside them. What are you afraid of?"

Brendon was searching in his mind after a response. And despite having hundreds, his lips were useless as he couldn't tell one.

"Why are you afraid of losing Mary as she was never really yours, not trully? Like craft, a superior being, God, Yahveh, Adonai, or whatever you call it...has made us to have a purpose. For some, it is to live greatly, to have their name remembered. And those fall into the sin of greed and pride. And there are those who are nothing but shadows in this world where they only succeed in living and dying. Guess who has repented in this?"

"Are you going to preach to me, Gerard? You are preaching to the choir." Brendon repsonded with the bitterness of a tincture that make the body ramble in the pain of its poison.

"I know I can't change you. But your lover...you see...she is a different kind.  And the lies she have told to you...you would never know if her family would have never had an enemy." he said with that reminiscense of the past hidden under those eyes, green seemingly greed, wrath especially.

"And that enemy is you? What sick trick you are putting myself into, priest?" The revolt seemed the pleaser of the adjuvant of higher knowledge, as his hands were playing harder in the urge of delight and anger.

"You see how easy can appearances can deceive you. I have told you, Brendon Urie, you are a naive kind. In your eyes I seem to be nothing more than the antagonist, but did you ever knew that I am the one that is responsabile that your beloved is still breathing today?"

The weight of the world seemed to be put like the sphere of the world depicted from the unicity of human's way to comprehend the history of the unknown, just to be put on the shoulders of Brendon Urie.

"And Mary Jackson told you that she knew me? I can easily get that she didn't, as from the moment she firstly entered with you in here, she was distant, like I would have been a stranger. She remebers me, Urie. She does quite well."

The heaviness of a smile drew over his face a glimpse of remorse, something like guilt and pride combined in a divine concotion he enjoyed like gods would do with ambrosia. Like he took the autority of an pathernal figure, the bitterness of a world consisting only in blood connections and that fake love built on empires of money, and have it to get, to the child of his even more fake friend, but the one he loved in a twisted way so pure no human could understand. The senator didn't either, and how unfortunate...

"I saved her life and have been the father the didn't have when the senator was beating her for disobbedience. And do you know what her dissobedience was? She thought that the bloody being William summoned years ago, when she was a little girl, was her friend. A goethic figure was her friend, Brendon! Children understand the differences between beings, but are not like we are - "mature", to punish and reject as we do. And I believe that the name of that being is the key to the criptex, as her father avoided to tell me what the goetic entity was named. My past is dirty but the future is clean. And of course I didn't asked you to come in here for nothing. I want you to do the right thing as it is in your habit to do. As Mary Jackson had her hands stained with blood."

"I won't kill again, Father Way", Brendon reciprocated thoughtfully, not a glimpse of hate in that misunderstanding. "Not an innocent person. Not my friend, because you think she is a killer."

"You and me, Brendon Urie are nothing less than alike." Gerard Way smiled hardly with the joy of a child he never could have been. "You cared about Lisa as much as I did for Mary. To save the childhood you didn't have you tried to save another's. Let the people decide the faith of the mother who killed her daughter as a offering to the Adversary, Brendon Urie", he continued like he was praying to him, like a beg without passion to someone who was just him, mirrored into another. "Mary did it."

No! She wouldn't have killed Lisa! Gerard..."

"Sit down. And now, young man, can you listen to me for a bit. Or a bit longer, because it is not going to be simple.

"Oh, it is simple. She is innocent."

"She was a child when I saw her. Her father put her into my arms, and...even now, after all those years, I can't get rid of that stupid laughter of her. A laughter I cherished back then, one I would do anything to get off my mind now. "Look, Gee", Will told me, "look how little she is. How full of life." She remained full of that life, that vivacity, and I believe that was her downfall. But I knew that the father of that child wasn't going to protect her. I hoped...I swear to Adonai, Brendon, that I hoped that he would change. And he wasn't a bad man...no, but the practice turned him into the person he tried not to become. I told him, countless...countless times to never make the mistake I did...because it costed me so much. But it was in his ancestry, in his genes and blood to take that dark turn and put faith into inferior beings, neutral, as he called them. But what is neutral is neither good or evil.

"He summoned something...out of thin air? Or, rather to be said...with Sigillum Dei Aemeth?

"She told you."

"Not much of it. I sense that she tries to hide something."

"Your intuition doesn't play tricks on your mind. She does, because her father hurted her badly. You saw her scars, those who cover ger skin. Tell me, Brendon, how much skin does he have covered in them?

"More than I liked to see. Or she to admit."

"I was a friend of the father...The best of them and at the same time the worst...because it was simple, Brendon. Easier that way."

"You betrayed him?"

"Just once and enough. And for the first time I sensed something different. Something I can't get rid of and it is not natural..."

"You felt remorse. You still do. What did you do? what did you do, Father Way?"

"There was this...this sort of competition and I couldn't get off it. I couldn't even allow to lose this...

"Why being in a competition with your friend?

"You couldn't understand!" For the first time, the remorse almost braught Gerard to tear up. You can't understand as you love everything so deeply, you fool..."

¹Morning Star = Venus

²five signs = marks used to make any man go to a place the practitioner want, made in linen cloth as the name of the victim is written there, in the day and hour of Venus, with Venus rising in the second face of Taurus - ritual found in The Picatrix

³,⁴ The Adversary, the Light Bearer = the Devil

 


	9. A drunk painter's demons

_1495, Toscana, Italy - the beginning of everything_

  
Buzzing sounds of quarrel could be heard in the celebrating tone of an Italian city in the blossoming of spring, as the Piata was crowded with the joy of a beautiful sight. The scene was perilous, as people would literally bounce into each other bodies to do the tasks they please, to get the product of the mongers that were trying their ways into trickery for their benefits. The sun was bitter than expected, to the delight of men whose eyes were lowering rather disrespectful towards ladies' clivage, put so much into contrast to the size of their strangled waist. There was a day like it wasn't before and it never would be again, and a day that needed to be cherished.

Toscana was growing after an stressful epidemic that took away some lives, that kept the horror in the souls of the families that lost someone dear. As the ilness got through the minds of the innocent, it grew with the expectation of something new, the power of what people call a miracle - but little did they know the act of miracle is in their one hands, waiting desperate to be used.

Leonardo was looking at his stained hands with the trembling, utter insatisfying remorse of a murderer, as he murderer his soul. Or maybe, in his mind it was nothing more than a time slaughter, as his work was the definition of a pristine caricature. That was what he would call it, and no matter how sun shone over the canvas of his desperate, prolific try, it was going to remain the ugliness of the world caught into the shadow of a masterpiece.

People affirmed that the reason behind his work was uncertain, as the amount of time spent could be rather valued differently, put into more productive actions. But no matter the impulse of all the mundane that stained his mind incorrigibly, Leonardo DaVinci carried the burden of missunderstanding the world had offered him as they slaughtered and reshaped his inclination to their one belief. And that way the hurting of the mind of one became due to a growth of generalised ideology the one of mankind, as they beloved the incertitude of a higher power more than the energy within, the one that carried our lifes to this very day. 

Nevertheless, that truth was a piece of what the future hold, as that day was just an ordinary tiredness by alcohol induced euphoria, like a trend older than times that every mortal has obbeyed to as the times are dark no matter if included in the Dark Ages. The painting was ready, or so was his little devil on his shoulder telling him that made him almost lose his hearing due to all the laughing about how much he lacked talent. It seemed like in his case, art was meant to be the delight on the viewer's eyes and the utter horror in the creator's.

Exiting the gallery hallway - ironic way of expressing how desinteresting seemed to him the doorway out of his home, Leonardo was in the hurry of a man who doesn't want others to wait to much - thing that, irronically, made his aquaintancies wait even longer than the so-called academic quarter, that doubled and intensifies as much as the patience lowered.

The staricase seemed to trouble him since the beggining of time, as his legs were often sore form understandable causes, but the vision thar await past the entrance made rge pain just a sweet relief from his utter boredom. Behind him, in the quietness of a room, a tainted smile held a secret only he knew, sweetened by the eyes that called the grief, lust and pure happiness altogheter. It was like someone expected patient the creator to come home, to the home he made into the minor and full of inconvenience world that never let go to the thing he cherished.

Angry voices of elders ancompanied into a antropomorphised orchestra the one's of ladies and gents that were anything else but patient into the middle of the Piata, Toscana's revival being more entartainmant and pure than the sight of the desperation nature cling to life in the rise of spring. The weather was blinding, the hot air being unbearable as sweat runned cold down Leonardo's skin, but he put everything on the behalf of his little anxiety, emotion that fueled his vivacity - a trait long existing into his ancestry. And he standed, în the middle of events, the corner of his eyes contemplating the show life brought toward him, the show people forgot so easily to cherish nowadays, as they should only look around and listen.

"Leonardo! Leonardo DaVinci!" The tremoring of one's young man voice drew his attention, his eyes following his as he inspected the sight of that person coming towards him, look full of admiration.

"What have I told you? Time, time is the key, Luca!"

Fra Luca was looking at him with the same look, intrigued by the closure to the one that seemed to be the sheppard of his dreams.

"I...am sorry, sir."

"Leonardo" he corected him, feeling a little happier as he saw that smile rounding the face of his company. "Let's keep this on a friendly basis, shall we? Otherwise I will start to feel like some old fashion guy and it hits me in the feels the fact that I am not as trendy as some old gramps from here."

"Yes, sir...ah...Leonardo" he mumbled as the painter forced a smile that was against his urge to laugh at that childish behavior - the one of the person who was going to change him, unwillingly, into something unrecognisable.

"I heard you are a number gambler"

"It's called being a matematician, sir Leonardo."

"It's...nevermind. Don't you think that after all this years on this lands I am aware how this...trickery is called?" The severity treated him back with the awe and tremmor that struck the inpacientated mind of Fra Luca.

"I...apologise."

The laugh was let out out of thin air, as the confusion grew on the face of the young man. He seemed like a child that seemingly was afraid of breaking the heart of his father.

"I was just laughing at the situation, Luca. And you...you need to relax. Some doctor from Rome spread rumours that this "tension" is the cause to all disease. Are you...tensioned?"

"I-I..."

"Shhh" the painter silenced him with a sarisfying grin, and in that light of the ancient Toscana, that city of the past and greed that never ended, Leonardo Davinci, the famous painter claimed a different reputation in the eyes of a young person who was both thrilled and terrified of that conjoint of interests.

He was suddenly the source of luring people's minds, by that touch of friendship and that reassuring thing that made him like a guardian to Fra Luca's childish, but intelectual thinking.

"What happened to him? The...doctor?" he barely breathed, filling the void the silenced let hard between them.

"Huh? What didn't happen? Burnt on stake...poor crafter." Coming even closer to Fra Luca, he dared to whisper the words that made a diference - "I see no sin in this as those discipols are trying to enforce for us to believe their lies. It is knowledge, and it is going to be lost this way."

The understanding of the situation hit him hard, as it didn't lower the admiration in the eyes of that young "number gambler" as he got that tricky nickname, for The Leonardo DaVinci, The painter that could see so much and put it in his work. The visionary side was missing, like he would have held all within, and it needed to be something that was like a contribution towards understanding. And all begin with the muttering of words like a deal they have shared, a pact toward an unexpected discovery:

"You believe too."

"Don't you do the same?" Leonardo dared, his eyes wandering not even close to shyly into the depths of Fra Luca's mind. The smile of those two man in the middle of the Piata on a warm day was even more contagiously warm.

"Yes...I do, I do. I just...if people would hear...

"You wouldn't tell. Otherwise I would tell too. You just admited, and you are unknown, I am...less...unknown. It is all about preferences in the eyes of the people."

"That hadn't seem to have helped that doctor so much." Fra Luca claimed, thoughtfuly, but bitter at the understand of that unjust statement. Leonardo DaVinci was being loved, after all, and the enviness was a real reason as long as he was using his benefits to untie the knot in an attempt to free the justice's eyes.

"Anyway...", he changed the subject quickly, not quite bothered of the minor conflict "...last time we saw each other..."  
"You helped me so much! Yes... Divina Proportione has enough fame for a young person like me, you can tell, Leonardo."

"Young? Do you think that succes is measured in...age? It depends on what you do, and you, Luca, have a lifetime for it. It was still my pleasure to do the cover and the credit offer is nothing you should be angsty about as I don't intend pursuing it. You got the letter from me and you know already..."

"That Ludovico Sforza has you under his patronage and he wants me to do the same? Yes, I am aware."

"When I met you in Milan a few months ago...Sir Sforza was the one who recomended you. A bright mind for a perspicacious painter...angsty too, I suppose would look like a key to progress.

"I would rather say perfectionist."

"I will take that as a compliment, if you don't mind.

"Not at all, as it was my intention."

"You have been helpful, my dear friend, and I assume your geometry skills you taught me helped me develop something new." he said with entusiasm almost shaking his body.

"Did I converted you into the "number" gambling?"

"No, not at all...not at all" he laughed at the irony, thankful almost at that weird use of terms, "you know I am no visionary."

"You are underestimating yourself."

"Perhaps you should are the product of your help. Come with me, will you? I have something in the gallery I would like you to see."

His entusiasm faded as a glimpse, or rather said, a thought unknown to the exterior slipped his mind but not his lips, but after all, Fra Luca knew in that in the depths of Leonardo's ego lied the fear of being judged. But the judge followed the culprit in the sanctuary of the crime.

"A friendly opinion counts more than the one of the world altogether." DaVinci insisted with the painful smile that painted his face with all those emotion combined so hurtfully, as the corridor was passed and there, în the middle of a luxury hall lied the face Luca Pacioli knew he won't forget.

It was terribly vivid and horrifying exalting to look her in the eyes.

"Leonardo! That's...that's....exquisite."

Luca Pacioli was starring at the painting with an awe on his face, and little did Leonardo understood that day the fact that he was the one that put it on like on a canvas made by skin and a bit of trust. But the smile the painting shown was not somewhere bear to be trusted, as its feminity shown respect and betrayal simultaneously, like she knew, deep down in her twisted mind crafted by the painter, a secret of her own. Centuries after the paint dried on the canvas, the secret remained still forbidden to the human mind, like the turned into Eve herself playing malevolent only in the eyes of men with the utter horror found in the forbidden fruit. The secret lied on her lips fresh like in the first day, waiting to be whispered in the ear of a art lover in a gallery of...., some day, by the beauty and both ugliness as some claimed of the character in her excellence, Mona Lisa.

"I have told him the same thing, yet here he is, doubting it." the conversation was interrupted by the familiar face of a man in his middle, or rather due all respect said elderly years, no one other than Ludovico Sfortza, an well known individual, more of a colorful character himself as others gossiped rudely, as his extravaganza made him be something found rather in stories where art is becoming like a hallucinogenically induced dream.

"I have told you, my dear sir", Leonardo's voice could have been heard as some dusty shade of pink would carry his blood around his cheeks as he was intrigued by that almost compliment "the painting is not one of the best..."  
"Then why won't you start another? The Sixtine Chapel awaits for some crafty hands that could make a hell of a work. Oh...appologise my words...would "heaven" be a better term to describe it?"

"I have told you..."

"Yes, yes...You have no time, you got to wait...Wait for what?" Sir Sfortza was looking at him, eyes wide from expectation, like someone who await for the train that was long gone, lost in the unknown. And he knew, from all the acts and stunts Leonardo played like a disobedient child, that he was a lost cause. "You came under my patronage for advice and how you are going down to the same alcoholic sleep depriving path I have found you taking before meeting you first hand? You know with what is the path leading to Hell paved with."

"Don't remind me of that good intentions quotation, I hate with seething passion everything even near cliché."

"Do you? Do you, for real, Leonardo?  Cause all your life is a weird artsy cliché. Excuse my boldness, sir Luca, but artists have their own. How can I serve you?" Sir Sfortza insisted with that gentleness of a father who shows affection to his son.

"I don't want to disturb, thank you. Better deal with the conflict you two, I would assume. Not my intention to interfere, though."

"No conflict, just...misunderstanding. See, Leonardo is a clever mind but still a stubborn one." he clarified gently just what seemed to be an appology for the painter's behavior.

"Oh, yes! My omnipresent stubborness!" DaVinci raised his voice annoyed, eyes rolling irronically.

"I came to see the painting...It is called...?" Fra Luca changed the subject sharp, like he wouldn't want to start another quarrel that lead to the path of nowhere.

"I called it Mona Lisa."

"You liked her. The lady...she...

"Luca, don't!" Leonardo speaked clumsy, all flustered as he tried to keep some kind if a manly macho straight face, but the thought of the women invaded his mind just like the water enters the bottom of a ship to sink it and take it to the abbys. In that case, hard was it to be admitted that something unspeakable but always carried hard in his mind was the depths of that abbys he dared to look at. If only the abbys would have eyes for him to stare back...

"Leonardo?"

"Yes? Yes!" he mumbled angrily, like those who just woke up from a dream that they wished it never ended. The beautiful features drew with precision only God had and offered for the world to enjoy in that feminine presence suddenly blurred to become the traits of a confused man worried about how friend's sanity.

"Are you alright?" Fra Luca insisted, as the painter was flustered as regret drew red circles in his often pale cheeks.

"Of course. Of course I am."

Fra Luca knew as well as Sir Sfortza that Leonardo DaVinci, the well known painter nowadays, the brilliant mind that would be reminded soon for what seems to be all eternity was far from being alright.  
He was deep into the smudged muddy hell of a feeling that caught Dante Aligheri in the pits on the Hell of his mind, that made all write so beautifully tragic as blood, murder and this particular nonsense would become the aestethic society pleases and craves - he was in love.

Little to say, the patronage dar something Ludovico Sfortza needed to extend his power over the ones that could benefits after some exchange - he was a hell of a bussiness man but a ctitor of what was the art trickery, where his fortune was made on the backbone of people like DaVinci and now, recently, Luca Pacioli.

And it was only a matter of time till two friends came across one another, in the middle of another city in its blossoms of people's fortune. Piata was left behind, as the home they would always enjoy returning to, as they craved the space they called a home, and it was intriguing how many found it mundane as other the place where their heart belong.

And it was easily to admit the displeasure of the Duke Sforza at the blood gurgling news that another architect took in his own hands what he could've offered to Leonardo, the thing that he threw away like a gift he never wanted. Like a spoiled child he started to become in the eyes of Ludovico, DaVinci was a hell of a man whose personality was shapened by the worst trait a employed could have - stubborness. So it was the time that he oferred another as Michelangelo took the offer to paint the Sistine Chapel, to the delight of people who has the trilling opportunity to see the craft of his own hands.

Milan owned the treasure that await for those who want to discover it and for other who wanted to make it become greater. The burst of heat made the people dizzy with the sweat left in the air like the little gossip they make at the corners of every street paved with their intentions to get wherever their life guides them.  And it was easily to pronounce that the bussiness was going to get tangled into the mind of those whose talent was crafted from their issues, their insecurities that only made then crave to become more and more of themselves.

The ringing bells of the church reminded the daily washing of the sins, like those would be a disease that would eat away at their souls just as cancer eats the flesh, and the priest, so much of a money and faith gambler would take away all by the almighty power of the One above he was inherited with. After a dusty road that led to the red bricks that made the walls of one of the Houses of Adonai, as some would call them proud at the understanding of human comprehension of divine power, what seemed to be a anxious pilgrim waiting to enter the church of Santa Maria delle Grazie become clearly that was a bit more known for what a painter once called "number gambling".

As there would not be allowed any tourists or faith seekers in the inside of the church, except for one with a heavy duty that us soon to turn out to be blasphemious, Fra Luca Pacioli was in a hurry to see the evident reason Leonardo DaVinci would have announced him to check out all the routes toward Milan in the early morning one day ago, and needless to say he was like an elder man who was so tired he could just lay down on the ground in that very moment with no regrets of any kind.

Leaving Toscana at the beggining of the sunrise on the other day was one thing, but the reason was fulfilling as he realised the cleverness of his best friend - the messy bastard who has so much paint stuck in his hair he could have been mistaken for a lady that tried to much to impress a man she ended up artificial in the most denotative sense.

Leonardo DaVinci turned to him slightly as he understood the risks if falling of the ladder and falling in the second worst way possible for a human, the first one being one well known that caused him so much pain after seeing the beauty of a lady who was called Mona Lisa.

The pristine wall of Santa Maria delle Grazie church was now took in his hands, not gently as the idea seemed to be from another world - but do someone need to explain that was some detail preety odd that interfered with what seemed at first to be a religious masterpiece. And maybe - just maybe - the cleverness of that little detail would have been what would've made it become a masterpiece itself - but the decision taken further by some duke from Toscana was what changed the course of events.

"Guess who'd been bold enough to draw his own stupid face with all those nasty angels?" Leonardo's grin went so wide it could have made him be mistaken for a madman.

"Oh my sweet Lord, Leonardo, you didn't..."

"Bet" he laughed, so proud of himself. "Right there, holding to those keys of Heaven and chatting up catching the gossip with saint Peter. My closest attempt to get to Heaven I'll ever get, ay?"

A miniatural Leonardo could have been seen so clearly happy at the sight of saint Peter, most likely amused at the weird jokes a saint old as times could have known and told like a comedian.

"You are bloody brilliant, you moron!" Fra Luca bursted, happier than he ever was seemingly, as he was himself proud of that ingeniosity some would find a pure blasphemy. "Thou shall not tell a word to that hell of a rusty man Sforza, or he'll sent you to high Heaven more quicker than you'd like."

"If only, my friend. If only..." he assured Pacioli to calm down as he attempted to get of the ladder and paced easily toward his friend to admire the painting from his perspective. And indeed, the idea was glorious.

"And you have assumed you ain't got talent. Leonardo, you are pure genius. And your craziness equals it I get envious."

"I am thrilled you see it this way. I am afraid that Sfortza have to be here any minute, and if he will notice..."

"Yes, he is too strict. What to expect from an old man like him?"

"How chatty you two. You know what they say, speak of the Devil." suddenly the voice Leonardo and Luca would never wanted to heard in that particular moment was heard, but they was a relief as Sfortza had not noticed what exactly happened - not yet. "How did your work went out, son? Should I adress to you that way as I am the oldest here..."

"Sir Sfortza..." Leonardo faced up Ludovico's messy conclusions, a bit cutthroat as the duke seemed a wounded wolf trying to find tge weak point of the sheep.

"Nevermind. I hope your work does pay off" he continued as his eyes raised to admire the scenery of the kingdom come, what people dream of because of fear, the idea they insisted to be the utter truth without even questioning as the fear would not indulge them the fact that they could be so wrong.

That all could have been milenias ways of thinking shapen by new ideas and doctrines of what is people's deepest desire - the peace their soul crave as they murder the ones that deny their false utopia, and show hatred towards their vessel's needs. And the angels were silenced by the awe on their faces that showed pure joy at what seemed to be a triumphic arrival of a true saviour, the one one only...

'What the hell does Leonardo do with Saint Peter?!' Sir Ludovico Sforza couldn't take his own eyes from the painted Leonardo that had so much joy to chat with Saint Peter te seems to be heard the best joke told by the saint himself.

"How on Earth have you become so foolish? Leonardo! What will people say when they will ask you the meaning of this?"

"It is my redemption." he said thoughtfully, as a tiny of sobre respect was shown of his face that seemed trully hurt.

Needless to say the respecte matematician Fra Luca Pacioli felt that his own ribs could have popped like pins as he tried so hard to keep his maniacal laugh silent inside him.

"Redemption! Redemption!? You will go to hell for that! You will change it" he pointed angrily as Leonardo almost tainted in that attempt to stay sobre and respectful. "Make it less ofensive or the pope will be madder than a box of frogs. I never underestimated you talent, DaVinci, but christianity doesn't work as you would please. You can't put your damn face next to Saint Peter as you would be some saint and expect people to never notice. No one should ever know what lies beneath the layer of your next painting. And you will paint to cover this mess another biblical scene. Less threatening and blasphemious, for crying out loud!"

"But the angels!" Luca insisted with the dissapointed of a little boy whose you have been taken away. "You can't bury the angels behind layers of paint. They don't deserve to die!"

"Oh yes, they do. And get to work, DaVinci! The pope will be here next week and you are just messing around. Pacioli, if you want to deny my autority, I am taking my hands off you!"

"I apologise, Sir."

"Paint a goddamn scene. Be rigid, serious. No one needs a comedian in a church. Laughing is the Devil's pleasure", he claimed bitter as he exited the church, leaving Leonardo and Luca in the silence of their thoughts that weren't so sweet anymore.

"Now what?"

"If he didn't want a comedian, he should have never payed me"

"But he said to paint another..."  
"  
And I will. I will, Luca, but do you know how chaste are those from the bible?"

"Uh...very?"

"Nu-huh. Not anymore. The pope is gonna kill me."


	10. The Ballad of Mona Lisa

" _In the beginning of time_  
_As a bright light appeared in the sky_  
_The voice of God Himself could've been heard_  
_As saint Gabriel would sing from his Horn_  
_Begone, Thot!"_

  
"And this is what Saint Peter would tell me if he would see this. Oh God, the pope is going to burn me on stake. Like an ungrateful witch or a cannibalistic barbeque"

Clinging desperate to Fra Luca's cloth as he would be dying - not necessarily from being sober - Leonardo DaVinci looked him in the eyes as he would have seemed the final jury. "Does she looks like a man?" he pointed angrily to the painting that was later to be called the Last Supper.

"Well...A gifted one, I suppose..." Fra Pacioli squinted shyly at the kinda transgender lady clivage,"...or like a less gifted woman."

"You're not helping!" Leonardo yelled frustrated, his hands cutting the air franatically.

"Excuse me, my dear, but weren't you the one that wanted to show off with some painting where you were chatting with Saint Peter?" Fra Luca cut him off with the irony that sounded rather bitter, wounding the pure, but damned soul of the painter.

"Yes!"

"And now you are triggered that you painted Maria Magdalena as an apostle in disguise."

"Well, she is charming at least, isn't she? he gesticuled ridiculously towards the painting like a man that tries so hard to well something. "I mean...Jesus aproves."

"We will meet in Hell."

"I never thought you would ask me for a date, but you know...I like someone else."  
"God help me, I will cut thy tongue". The ridiculousness of the situation never get the chance to cease Luca Pacioli, considering the witty chart and outdated manners Leonardo DaVinci was armed with.

"I am not a kinkshamer....",DaVinci claimed rapidly with a naughty grin on his face that had confusion written all over it. "But don't you think it is a bit...brutal?"

"The pope is coming, you have drank a grape domain worth and now the pope would only think if you are worthy or not to be his new buffon, not painter!"

"What can I say, I have many talents, mate-y", he dared proudly to say as he got two empty bottles of rum off the table in an terrible attempt to show off with his lesser known skill of jonglery.

And nevertheless, it is obvious that the first instinct that bursted out in Fra Luca's mind and body was to avoid the triggering sound of glass that would have been made if he wouldn't have taken those bottles from the painter's hands in a quick move.

"You are showing off, thou wimp!" he yelled out of anger, calming down as he felt that sad vibe that took over the soul of DaVinci, as he was a man of horrors disguised in the cloth of his talent.

"And when shall the pope cometh?" The painter asked almost in stillness of his misunderstanding, something at the verge of frustration and dissapointment, something that amused, intrigued and broke the heart of his friend.

"Not late enough for thou to sober up. Come on, ay? Chieff Sfortza told me that he shall arrive at midday, when sun is at its highest."

And the very words of the lamb of God shall never be broken, as the Pope Alexander the sixth came indeed as he claimed, like an angel descending from the high circles of Heaven no sinner can comprehend or touch, dressed as a saint would be believe to do so, in the shining armour of a gladiator that militates for mortals sins.

Leaving aside the fastuous presenting no one would believe in today, as we all know what most clerics used to be like in the descending of time where society was twisted after filthy interests, the life of such a man was put in center of his rank - the very thing that made him like a the son of Gods - nothing like Hercule thought, as no one would dare to even compare the muscular mass of those two.

Ironically saying, it seemed like the life that was spent having God on speed dial - or on a informal prayer basis, considering those times, was a gift beared by the Pope that was indeed a happy man. Ora et labora¹, how the benedictines claimed to be the key to the Pearly Gates² was soon to be deturned by catholics as it took just one direction, and not one that included the heavy duty of hard working kept strictly by their Superior.

But those are just beliefs si strict no one would ever consider, and surely not a drunk painter who is waiting patient next to his friend whose anxiety took another level that made him question his own choices in life.

In the heat of the moment, the view of the city from the balcony has the breathtaking value of stargazing, something that steal the words from the mind of people, as the voice of thousands could have been heard both whispering and loud, rioting due to their curiosity. The mass was trembling in her own waves of expectation, being a wish came true to the circumstances of meeting their pastor, as they were plain sheeps waiting desperate to be sheppered. So delightly for their ruler, so shameful for their capital sin they obbliged themself to deny and constraint, the pride that would make them more human than religion itself.

A large cloth of shining fabric would be carried hard just like the burden of his owner whose pride was a malice he accepted from the day he spoke his commitments to a higher being, omnipotent but not feared - not by him.   
The pope was a hell of a man with both an angel and a Devil whispering soft luring tales on his shoulder - and little does he knew how the displeasure in his position is found straight in the lesson of a man tortured by his worst demon of all - not of pride, gluttony or avarice, but the one people crave - the one of love. Hell had still room for those who make a mockery in the name of Adonai, and being just partialy on his side is a one way toward benefits, another toward punishment.

And the very moment when his appearance was being made, his power shake the souls of those who were in front of him - from stupidity, some would say, but especially from the utter respect.

"Aha! God's marrionette!"   
The words bursted out from Leonardo DaVinci so quickly Fra Pacioli could have sworn he would be willing to sell his damned soul only to have the speed to shut his friend's mouth at the right time.

"For crying out loud, DaVinci, I am so done with thy fooliness."

The silence was deafening - literally as you could have felt the heat of the tension between people - either made out of their fanatic thoughts or simply the curiosity that made them punch with their unwashed elbows into the crowd just to get to see the Vatican's chosen one up close.

"My people", pope Alexander started, voice shaken from something he felt deep down in his guts, in his feelings that made himself bounded by the very thing he swore not to obbey to - pride. "We lived terrible, terrible times, and I tell you that each one of you has lived because has believed in one chance. That the ...disease, this plague will vanish as God would let survivors. I deeply regret the ones that you lost, the ones that ended up in a better place, as they will find peace. I prayed for them, as all of my discipols did, for their souls. They are not a lost cause, but you are here with a purpose, as I am, therefore I hope you will find your path out of your suffering." A little smiled creased his cheek as he realised his regrets were over. "And another reason for me being here is to make a work of a man holy, as he devoted his time to create what I heard to be a masterpiece from Patron Ludovico Sfortza, a man I had the honor to meet and realise what a good soul he has."

"Good soul...good soul. But does he say at the rising sun "Popa Alexander, hast thou my velvet slippers cause I intend not crawling in the corridor like an not very sober spider!"? No, he hast never. Did my good sir Ludovico spoke to me as I seem to be his servant? Yes, Leonardo."

"Naïve thou", Fra Luca muttered bitterfully, "Do you think the Pope would put his pristine feet into anything but condors?"

"Uhh, seal thy mouth. Behold that yeeted buffon." Leonardo threw a bitter glimpse towards Sir Sfortza, who was a shining sun of pride.

"Your highness", the patron adressed with humility as he bowed like a arse-desmerding fool, pressing his ugly food hole to the shining surface of Alexander's ring, as the all-believer smiled in disbelief. "I am honnored to stay so close to a such proeminent figure of our times, whose holyness will always be a source of inspiration. And as I received such high words with my deepest umility..."

"Umility thou hath shown me" Leo commented as he seemed to spit words.

"I am willing to get into your attention the one that was the artist behind the reason of our gathering."

"Oh, now I am an artist, ay? Imbecile!"

"Let me introduce you to Leonardo DaVinci!"

'Oh the circus is at the city. And there is my buffon', Fra Luca thought, partially proud and both terrified as he saw the clumsy steps the painter took towards the balcony, like he was a madamè doing sensual tricks on an seemingly invisible rope. And how big his eyeballs went in horror outside his skull in the moment he saw how thw famous painter Leonardo DaVinci patted the Pope on his shoulder like he was a child.

"You higness", he dared to say as he went into a ridiculous bow in the front of the Pope, touching innapropriately the fabric he wore and gasping in awe.  
"Ahh my dear, silk!"

"What is the meaning of this?" The Pope asked bitter, looking towards Ludovico Sfortza who was just like an ostrich from warmer places looking for sand to bury his head for all eternity.

"I deeply apologise, I never thought..."

"Nevermind", the pope responded out of boredom, remembering suddenly one specific not sober night from his years of glory that were definitely not those since he chose that fancy silk and the title. "Where is the painting, DaVinci? I traveled so long to see what you have made, and sir Sfortza told me about your incontastable talent. Apparently, he just forgot to tell me this little detail about your drinking problem."

"Who is drinking?"

"Clearly not me, God...", Pope Alexander rolled his eyes as he followed the painter inside, disspearing in the reinassance styled door of the balcony, a first intention of architectural showing off those days.

And as soon as his Highness entered the church's altar, his eyes grew wide as he forgot the little incident Leonardo DaVinci brought with all that drinking technique that always got him a little too happy.

"The painting is marvelous"

"Hah! Indeed" the painter claimed proud, frowning a bit as he remebered that next to Jesus it was his consort that was kinda into manly features - it seems He got not so modern taste in women.

"And...the way you used blue and red for the robes of Jesus and his apostle, with the symbolism of the love he caried...

'Love indeed, the preacher ain't stupid but so close to the truth it triggers my fermented grapes' Leonardo thought, all drunken smiles being on his face.

"What is the meaning of this?" He asked, more humble than Chieff Sfortza that almost thicked the human, moist part of DaVinci's soul.

"Beside being the Last Super? Uh, It is about love, indeed, and acceptance..."he mumbled like a child who is persecuted by the teacher with answers.

"Divine!" Pope Alexander exclaimed, looking all sweet towards Chieff Sfortza who was standing behind in the chapel being all smiley.

And beneath all that happiness, it could be sensed the dramatism in an eye roll that came from Fra Luca Pacioli, who couldn't see Leonardo DaVinci other way than being someone who just got away awkwardly clean. It seemed like God loved that man so much the painter must think that he should be humble in front of Him less than he is faithful to that bottle of mind-losing essence.

And he was faithful to something else, something that made her appearance like descending from heaven, with a soft smile in the corner of get small lips that he would dare to steal a kiss from once.

'Mona Lisa?'

¹Ora et labora = (lat.) Pray and work, benedictine's central doctrine

²Pearly Gates = allusion to the Heaven's entrance


	11. Sub rosa

The beauty in the first rays of the day stands always not so much into the view the eyes of the civilisation embrace, not the nature itself with it's inexplicabile order, but in the connection that people share, by how they look so greatful at each other, by how they feel, by how they speak...

"Knot thy tongue!" a yell could have been heard from the colorful mouth of the one and only Leonardo DaVinci. And indeed, this was beautiful.

The clogged air of heatened brains was being spread in the incint if what could have been called Pacioli's domain, a little chamber of secrets that remained intact after years of natural disaster. And who would have thought that the reconstruction of it, again and again, would have brought to the eyes the pleasure of seeing centuries later, in the same place, a mansion that hid a disturbing secret - not other than the Jackson's. The air got hardened by their each breath, the pulse triggered to its higher cotes as they followed their expectance, and their secret could've put the romanic stigmate of a rose¹ on the wooden door that separated Fra Luca Pacioli and Leonardo DaVinci from the dizziness of that italian city.

"My sweet Leonardo, this isn't chicken pox that make you get your skin all shivery," Pacioli said, as he seemed to have sworn in his mind that he caught the famous painter blushing.

"Lock up thy teeth, or I will boil thee and replace thee in my next chicken soup. Are thou not shameful, Pacioli?!" he yelled, even though the painter's lungs kept so hard the beginning of a laughter.

"It is love. I saw your glittery eyes, shimmering all wet after that woman Lisa! Love is a hell of a feeling, though" the mathematician almost sang as he threw consistent looks towards the painter that could have sworn he would paint his next painting using his friend's blood.

"Thou will get shimmering eyes too after my fist will plan a meeting with thy face."

"Delay the meeting. Listen to me, thou damned painter. I know damn well you got your nose into my love spells from my grimoire, but I spilled no tea. Be thankful."

"Oh how thankful..." he rolled his eyes disrespectful, as in that weird roll his look an even more important target - the little rum bottle kept so pristine in the wooden bar of Fra Luca, and the only thing that could have keep him away from filling the belly of his gluttony demon he kept in his alcoholic mind was the sharp ugly look of his friend and the closed door of the cabinet the bar contained. And if only...

"It's been three days, three days, Leonardo, since you met her and look at you."

And indeed, the rum addiction would be a danger to today's cinematography if he would have been contemporan with Johnny Depp, being a good choice for his role in Pirates of the Carribean. But in a time as old as DaVinci, with all due respect to the man who was a genius indeed, pirates, less funny and Maybe even more drunk than Jack Sparrow might have roamed the sea in the pursue of fortune.

"What? There's rum, not medicinal alcohol"

"Medicinal...What?" Pacioli asked with the naïvity of a child who asked his tutor a thing that was seemingless nothing out of import.

"Ah, poor miserable thing, holera will have thy carcass rip opened. Haven't I told thee about that damned doctor who claimed..."

"Yes, poor doctor, worthy of burning on stake. What is with him?"

"He used this thing like a remedy...I drank it and I could have sworn things were getting messy before my own eyes. It is worthless, indeed...", DaVinci mumbled as he could have felt even them the dizziness of that unfortunate choice playing wicked games with his head.

"Medicinal alcohol?"

"Aye"

"Sfortza got me into the biggest trouble when he decided that I shall meet thee", Pacioli complained as Leonardo threw him a ugly look.

"Bother me less, thou shall be thankful. So what if I've drank all that rum you've got in the cabinet"

"Lisa won't be never yours with that behaviour you show off with"

"Watch your tone!" The humble face of the tormented but sometimes happy painter changed unrecognisable at the triggering thought of that awful, heartbreaking possibility, as he hit so hard with his fist on the desk. The desire made his mind filled with doubt in the veridicity of that friendship, inspecting brutally the now scared friend that never expected such bloodthirst reaction. "Do not test my patience, Pacioli"

"Leonardo, my friend, I never meant..."

"I don't care what you meant. Do not say things that can not be taken back in times of anger."

"I am not angry, Leonardo, but you are. I tell you as a friend, because I care for you, even if you don't believe that. You should stop doing bad things to yourself like you would deserve them"

The eyes of the painter got wide, starring with his mouth agape at those words he hoped to not hear as they were more raw than his own soul.

"But don't I, Luca?"

"You think too less of yourself. I envy you, even though I swore I would never feel it like hatred towards someone I admire.

"Do you hate me?" the painter asked, and in times of silence someone could have sworn that the breaking of his heart could have been even heard.

"No, no" Fra Luca laughed at that silly question, as he knew how much sympathy he carried for the innocent painter. "Thou ain't less that to be admired. And to prove my friendship to thee, I will drop you the anouncement of thee being a persona grata² to a ball held in the honour of another aquaintance I had the pleasure to meet in Toscana a few springs ago, as I was barely a novice into mathematics. A long story, ended up with some memories washed up in gallons of bourbon..."

"My dear Luca. I am sorry for being that way to you, friend." he said apologetically, as he expected his excuses to be accepted with humbleness.

"I always forgive a friend. And shall thee guess who was willing to appear alone like a virgo to the list the vasal kept under the porch?"

"No way..."

"Your Lisa. That is your shot, bloody DaVinci, to get thy woman"

The smile got wide on the face of the painter, inspecting carefully his friend like he was nothing less than a rare gem that way going to keep close his whole life. Or at least, that was what he hoped...

How innocent was the painter whose world revolved around the fantasies put with a precise hand on the surface of a canvas...Only if he knew the final piece was no one else than someone he held onto dearly.

Not later than that conversation ending, the beginning of a magick, private lesson started to be the rise of a secret conection, but wat was to be expected is that such a secret should have been held by both sides. Spells of lovekeeping, trickery and curse stained black due to dark reasons and mentality were being consemned in what was going to become a lesser or mostly unknown journal of DaVinci and Fra Luca Pacioli, two personalities with a stained by sin past. And the future wasn't going to be more promising...

As the dawn came almost sooner than they were to expect as such things as magick are nothing more than time-devouring activities, the ball was being prepared, and the guests were to be expected. It was going to be, indeed, a hell of a time...

¹ the romanic stigmate of a rose - lat. sub rosa, reference to the ancient roman habit of putting a rose above a table where a meeting was held, as it meant that the conversation should remain secret

² persona grata - lat. wanted, accepted person

 

 

 


End file.
